Well, I got my hair chopped off yesterday 'cuz I was starting to feel like I'd taken the grease-ball axe-murderer look as far as I could. It's not totally short but, for me, it's a change. It grows so fucking fast, though, that I'll be back to dirtbag-level within the month.
The spawnage weren't too thrilled with the trimmage, however. Miss O has told me multiple times over the past two days, "Dad, I don't like your haircut. Not at all." And tonight at the dinner table, Mr. Z, after an uncomfortably long study of my physiognomy, pronounced, "Your nose is prominent, Dad." Of course, I had to inform him that, between my giant honker genes and the Old Lady's bump-in-the-nose genes, he's gonna have to wear a goddamn jockstrap over his schnoz just to keep it from dragging on the ground.
Oh, and I didn't really experience my normal haircut discomfort this time at the 'salon.' I've mentioned before how I never close my eyes when the haircut-lady massages my scalp or washes my hair 'cuz it makes me feel like some sort of perv -- like I'm getting off on it or something. So I usually sit there like a fucking dorkus, just staring up at the ceiling like, "Ho-hum... just getting my hair washed and I'm enjoying it in a perfectly appropriate, non-pervy way."
But this time, I just said "fuckit" and closed my eyes and tried to enjoy it. And you know what? I didn't, really, because haircut-ladies never massage hard enough, ya know? I wanted to say, "Hey! What's with the noodle fingers, lady? C'mon, press harder and get some fucking scalp under your nails, will ya?" But I just sat there and eventually re-opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling. It's a good thing they don't let you tip there, 'cuz that massage/shampoo woulda been a tip-breaker.
The amazing thing, though, was that this wee little woman came by during the cut and asked if I wanted, get this... A HAND MASSAGE! Then I realized she meant that she was just going to massage my hand, which, of course, would also be nice. And it was incredible. She spent a good five minutes on each hand and my fingers ended up quite relaxed and they stunk purty to boot. She offered it to the other two morons sitting next to me first, and they were all uncomfortable and shit, and hemmed and hawed and looked down at their feet. I was like, "Bring it, wee massage woman!" And she brought it. I felt like asking her to offer a massage tutorial to the haircut-lady, but I kept my mouth shut and just enjoyed my newly dewey digits.
Oh, and it was free. And no tips allowed. I love the no tips allowed thing! What's that? You want to charge me a little the more and then outlaw the tipping -- perfect! That's what I call a stress-free transaction! Unfortunately, the stress will be more than made up tomorrow, when I get my massage from the amazingly-tense-rescheduling-massage-woman.
I just hope she presses hard.