I Left My Harp in Sam Clam's Disco #5: In Which the Author Discusses the Problems with Keratin Formation in Hygroscopic Environments
My hair is difficult to cut. Finding someone who can cut my hair is an even more onerous task, so imagine my delight and surprise when I discover that around the corner from my current place of residence is a hair salon (I prefer to think of it as a more masculine "barber shop"). There are several good signs about this place:
1) It isn't titled something hipster-ish like "Hair Design by Takeda", or cutesy, like "Lock, Stock, and 2 Smoking Clippers"; instead, it has a very blunt, Times-New-Roman-type sign that says "Hair Cut and Style" and screams "no ad budget"
2) There are plastic sticky letters above the displays that say something like "MEN'S HAIRCUT $10"
3) Most importantly, you can hear a very musical type of foreign language coming from the inside, which means that the people working there are either from Southeast Asia, or Scottish, all of which are good signs.
I go inside and find, to my delight, that the lady who will be cutting my hair today is in fact, Vietnamese ***WARNING RACISM ALERT*** because, there are only a few people who can cut my hair in a way that doesn't make it look like, say, a diorama of the French Revolution as created by a hedgehog with a surrealist bent, or Spock. These people are, in order of proficiency: 1) the Vietnamese 2) the "fish eaters" that That Girl used to make fun of ("unlike them, *our food* has flavor") and 3) a Korean lady who moved to Chicago. ***WARNING END RACISM ALERT***.
It turns out alright; in fact, once I get over the fact that my sideburns are now shaped like the State of Texas (my skin is oily enough to stand in for the Gulf) , I'm quite pleased with my haircut. Moral of the story: be racist; it's good for your hair.