Dig my Haircut
Anyone who knows me knows I am nothing if not entrenched in 1990 like a dandelion growing out of a pavement crack. Barring the years between 1999 and 2002, my longish locks have been my currency and muse since the Falafel Mafia last rocked the Academy; tucking them gingerly behind my ears is the flannel rope I hang myself with daily. (Thanks for the metaphor, Krucoff. Awkward construction, mine). Lately, owing to the Noah-class rain and humidity, I'd been planning to scale back the scope of my coif. As usual, I opted for "Russian Roulette" at Astor Place rather than returning to the same haircutter time and again. Going in blind, I find, adds some excitement and uncertainty to an otherwise rote chore. Hardly anyone there speaks English anyway, and most have at least a few yellowed pictures from People or Barber's World of hairstyles to choose from, which, one would assume, they could at least approximate. It goes like this: I enter, I sit, I point, I sit, I tilt, I sit, I rise, I tip, I pay, I leave. I now look like a cross between John Milton and Pepe the Prawn from Sesame Street. My hair looks good too.