October 27, 2003

Question of the day: What malevolent force could change this:

this shaggy haired heart-breaker, this laid back easy-taking-it cool customer, and transform him into this:

a confused-looking Florence-Henderson-resembling sap, shorn of five pounds of blonde and even worse, dignity?

If you guessed "Russian Hair Assassin," then you, my friend, are correct.

All I wanted was a little trim, especially in the back. There was no denying the mullet-y things that were going on back there. It was with these simple intentions at heart that I stumbled into a salon a few blocks from my dorm whose window advertised fifteen dollar haircuts for students. Hey, I thought, that's me!

I would think those very same words about a half an hour later when I passed a pizza place advertising dollar slices for anyone sporting a retarded hairstyle recently applied by a portly Russian lady whose conceptual grasp of "just a trim" is spotty, at best. I would've stopped in and ordered one with pepperoni, but I had just used all my cash (fifteen dollary-doos, plus tip) to pay someone to rape my hair.

Emilie would later ask Why didn't you just tell her to stop? Because it didn't look that bad at the time. I felt like I was in the hands of a professional. We were discussing how when she says she's from St. Petersburg, people think she means St. Petersburg, FL, and how this misunderstanding had resulted in hilarious foibles at her previous job. I was listening to the old woman in the corner, getting some hair treatment from a guy that looked like Uncle Billy from It's A Wonderful Life, the two of them discussing (of course) how they just don't make movies like they used to. I was watching the blue sky outside, reflected through the mirror, thinking how great of a rest of today I will have, mulletless and feelin' groovy. My hair was still wet, the scissors were still in motion, anything was possible.

Then the scissors fell silent. Then the blow-drier came out. Then the horrible reality of my new hair started to become abundantly clear.

Emilie helped. She hid me away in her room and undid some of the damage with scissors of her own. It hasn't been as bad as I initially thought it was going to bel the response from the female community has been tepidly positive, but I think they may just be trying to be nice, hoping my long-haired self may here of it and come back from the past and sleep with them. He would if he could, ladies. He would if he could. But he's dead. And the Russian Hair Assassin killed him.

No more haircuts. Ever.

That was the worst thing that happened all week, meaning that it was a pretty damn good seven days. My dad was in town for Parent's Weekend. I didn't get to see him as much as I might've, as the Hammerkatz show went up Friday and Saturday and he left this morning. But he did get to see the show (claims he loved it, and who can blame him, any show where you get to see your firstborn son be an androgonyous Fuddrucker's waiter, a bloodthirsty viking, and utter the line "TiVo made my sperm grow tails" is a good one) and we did get to bum around the city on Saturday afternoon. Most importantly, we got to eat. Saturday lunch was Spice, pretty much my favorite thing of all time, and dinner was in Little Italy, where I gorged myself on lobster bisque and pasta with all manner of seafood. We received World Series updates by way of the three mobbed-up couples sitting across the room from us, loudly discussing their "contracting businesses" and swearing at their significant others. The waiter kept bringing them drinks and desserts compliments of the house. They'd periodically get phone calls from people watching the game. One of the husbands (his name was Tony, of course) remarked, upon hearing of the Yankee's loss, "I'm gonna give the guys in Miami such shit next time I'm down there." I hoped, for the sake of the authentic-Italian-restaurant ambience, that it's the kind of shit where guys named Rocco end up wearing concrete shoes at the bottom of the Atlantic.

Matt's aunt Chris was at the Saturday night Hammerkatz show. That was a surprise and a half. Apparently she was in town visiting her daughter Rysa (probably butchered spelling), and she read about the show on this very page. I don't know how I feel about people's aunts reading the blog. It's not necessarily aunt-appropriate, but she saw me say "fuck" on stage so I guess everything's fair game now. Hi Matt's Aunt Chris. Thanks, as always, for coming to my show.

Popped my Daylight Savings Time cherry last night. We don't have it in Arizona, but since the rest of the world does all it meant for us was that TV shows were on an hour later (earlier? I don't remember.) I used to set my clock 10 minutes ahead, just so if I was ever late somewhere, I could look at it and think, "Well, at least I'm not as late as I would be if that clock were correct?" Daylight Savings Time seems like that, but on a global scale. Just once, you get to look at the clock and say "It's five o'clock in the morning! Holy shit, I'd better hit the sack--- but wait! DST! It's only four! Awesome! Pass the crack pipe, Denise!"

Schwarma time. I ate very early tonight, I've got some of Pop's money burning a whole in my pocket, and right about now the big spit o'lamb from which they carve the schwarma is getting down to its fatty juicy center, and it's turning just for me.

You say "it's three AM and cold and rainy." I say "pita full of onions and lamb for four dollars seven blocks away." We'll see who goes to bed hungry.

Posted by DC at October 27, 2003 12:48 AM


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