I just got home from having my hair cut. I have traditionally disliked getting my hair cut, but my new hair-place-salon-whatever has some very friendly stylists. They are very friendly and make nice work of my hair, which has been described as a mop. Or a dead animal. I also feel like I sort of know them a bit now, which makes it easier. I mean, I suppose I know them well enough to be fairly comfortable, as I told my regular stylist the story of how I drunkenly took a dump on my buddy’s garage one winter (not my fault). You don’t just go telling random people things like that.
Getting your hair cut puts you in a vulnerable position. You’re basically at the mercy of the stylist. It can be a little unnerving to know that a person is swarming your head with a pair of sharp scissors and your arms are trapped under a cape. You never know when a stylist might be having a bad day and you become the victim of having a pair of scissors rammed in your ear. But my new hair-place-salon-whatever isn’t threatening like that. They don’t stab people.
The only stressful part of today’s hair session was my need to fart. As I was sitting in the waiting area, I felt one build up. Hmm. I studied the situation. Upon surveying the room, I knew I was easily far enough away from the front desk. Furthermore, I suspected I might be able to let it out without being detected, as the smell of the various hair care products would likely mask it. But you never know for sure.
1)You just never know when someone will walk up.
2)You just never know how bad it is until it’s out. And when it’s out, it’s out. There’s no going back.
Since I wasn’t in the mood to gamble, I decided to do the right thing and hold it in. The tough part now was that I was very soon brought back to the stylist’s station, seated in the chair, and covered with a cape. I had no choice but to hold it in now. If it even so much as slipped out an itty bitty bit, it would be trapped until the stylist removed the cape. Upon removal of the cape, it would unleash something potentially furious. Moreover, it would brand me as a filthy pig and I would never be able to go back.
Note to my stylist if you happen to read this: I appreciate your work! Please don’t fear me hahaha.
Oh, and what does this have to do with shirts? I was wearing Rat Rod 2: