Just when you think your town is actually becoming somewhat sophisticated... you drive into town and are greeted by a sign that says,
Oktoberfest
September 28-29
Located on Main Street
Home Sweet Home
Wash, Rinse, Repeat
Do you have a "stylist"? That's what hair dressers call themselves. Much like stewardesses prefer to be called "flight attendants". It makes being a waitress on an airplane seem more important.
Well I have a stylist, and let me tell you sometimes it feels like a bigger commitment than I signed up for. I mean... I already have a girlfriend. However, every time I see Joy (my stylist) at the gym or at Jewel she is like, "Hey, I haven't seen you in a while. You haven't stopped by or called me." And the whole time she isn't looking me in the eye, she is looking at my hair to make sure it is the accurate length for the lapse in time I have been to see her. I just keep praying my hat is covering enough and that she doesn't notice the proverbial lipstick on my collar. That's right. I cheat on my stylist. And everyday of my life I try not to get caught.
It's a dangerous thing. When I go to see Joy, it is at a very nice "day spa"/"salon". You know, where everyone wears black and all the girls that cut hair wouldn't know their natural hair color if they saw it on a color chart. She knows my life story and I feel comfortable asking her opinion on my hair style. It's an all around good experience. But then I go to pay and it costs about thirty dollars once you put in the tip. So I don't feel I can sustain this relationship all the time. So I go slumming.
It feels so cheap when I do it. I go to the Hair Cuttery, and I don't care what girl I get. They all tell me to come back and give me their card, but I throw it away. They give me a ten dollar hair cut, and mostly I just want a trim. They try and make chit chat... "So what do you do for a living? Have you lived here long?" Yes! Yes! I've lived here all my life, just cut my hair and please, please don't tell anyone that I was here. Don't tell my stylist... I'll do anything.
And then when I go back to Joy there is awkwardness...
"So where have you been."
"Nowhere."
"Wow your neck line looks really good, did you do this yourself?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
She has to know. I don't know why she continues to see me. It's probably just for my money.
I got the weirdest girl yesterday at Hair Cuttery. I sat down and she asks, "Have you been swimming a lot this summer?" "No, not really." I reply. She says, "Oh, cause I can smell it in your hair." I didn't say anything. I didn't tell her I thought it was weird that her mutant power was to tell where a person has been by smelling their hair. I didn't tell her it was weird that she smelled my hair. I didn't tell her I was offended because I shampoo and condition everyday. And I didn't tell here that I hadn't showered yet that day. I just got my cheap cut, paid the lady and went on my way.
I have to break the cycle.
Multicultural
I never knew what mulicultural really meant until now. But sitting in my living room with Omar (a 31 year old man from Peru) watching him play along to the Pink Floyd DVD and chat in spanich online... I understand.
No I don't. This is kind of unnerving. We have very little to talk about.
Blues Not Like Jazz
This past weekend was the Chicago Jazz feastival. So my girlfriend wanted to go into the city because there was a certain big band she wanted to hear play. And I think to myself... that's awesome I love Jazz. Turns out I just forgot that I don't.
The word "Jazz" has been thrown around alot to discribe a lot of music that might be better described as "Jazzy". About ten minutes into the feastivus for the rest of us, I realized that what I meant to say is "I like Blues music." Blues music is the first steps to rock and roll. Jazz is people taking turns soloing. I forgot that Jazz music is kind of like what you hear when you go to a church that speaks in tongues. One person starts a prayer and then there are random people shouting jibberish really fast and sometimes they bleed over into someone elses jibberish.
Or maybe a better word picture would be when my friends and I used to go dancing in college. We would go to a bar called "Rocky's" for "Bad Music Thursdays". Since the music was funny 80's and early 90's music my friend's Adam, Matt, and I would stand in a triangle and we would all start out doing the same non-commital head bob dance that is popular with all white guys who can't dance. Then out of nowhere Adam would do the running man, then point to Matt who would do the sprinkler, then point to me who would do the shopping cart, then point to Adam who would do the worm, then point to Matt who would do the robot, then point to me who would pull my shirt over my head and run around the bar screaming.... actually I take it back. That is not a good picture at all.
And once the madness stopped you would hear a deep voice coming from the general direction of a bowling shirt saying, "That was our hit single Transgender cosmic pink constilation sandwich... Thank You."