Tres Chic

Friday, something horrible happened.

I opened my closet, stared at my clothes, and realized that I hated everything I owned and therefore had nothing to wear.

Since I hate clothes shopping, I decided to go for the next step and get a drastic haircut. Because if I change my hair style, my clothing will look different and I'll be interested in it again and I can avoid the horrors of trying on clothes designed for mutant stick people who should really eat a sandwich for pity's sake.

Very logical.

So Monday I found myself in a salon, featuring white couches and funky euro-techno, watching copious amounts of hair fall to the floor.

3 different people wandered by to sweep up during the hour I was there.

I want to get a stamp, so I can keep score for every hair stylist that, armed only with a comb, scissors, and spray bottle, bravily wrestles my hair until at some point they have to concede something like:

"It's SO thick"
or
"Man you have a lot of hair"
or
"I didn't seem like that much when I started"

My hair has aspirations. It wants to be the Dunwich Horror.

Anyway, an hour later I emerged with a cut I would describe as "Emo." Short and shaggy in back, with graded sides, getting longer to the front, so as to frame my face as dramatically as possible.

Hey, it worked for Spiderman.

Everyone at work seems to like it. They describe it as "chic" or possibly "shiek."