Thursday Morning Haircut Club
I split the skin on my right thumb a few days ago, under the edge of the nail. Whenever I put pressure on my thumb, it hurts. I press the spacebar on the keyboard with my right thumb. Every word hurts. I guess I'm telling you this so you know that I suffered to bring you this post. That sounds wonderfully dramatic, doesn't itsuffering for your artexcept I very much doubt you can call a blog “art”. Certainly not this blog.
I got my hair cut this morning, at the place that used to have a parrot, and that used to have sexist hiring practices. They no longer have a parrot, and now they appear to let anybody cut your hairas evidenced by the middle aged woman that gave me the inquisition while lopping chunks from the top of my head. “Where do you work then?”, “What do you do?”, “Busy this week?”, “Do you think it will rain later?”. She finally stopped talking at me when an acquaintances walked in, and began getting his hair cut by another girl. It seemed to be a ploy to wind her up. The younger, prettier girl cut his hair in silence while the lady cutting my hair talked across the room at him non-stop, flirting openly. I'm not entirely sure how I didn't start grinning.
The pretty girl walked across to pick up a clipper attachment or something, and bent over alongside me. I'm not entirely sure how I didn't lookI wanted to. I'm either well behaved, or an idiotI haven't decided which yet.