Avant garde, no?

So, I got a hair cut last night.

Actually, I got all my hairs cut. Ahahahaha... Well, all the hairs on my head, at least.

The boss had been subtly hinting lately that perhaps it was time for a haircut, with such comments as "Boy, that's a lot of hair," and "This kind of year is a great time to try out a new do," and "Listen, Cam, get a haircut. It's unprofessional."

So, I went and got a haircut. Now, I'm no haircut expert. It had been considerably more than a year since my last one - but I'm told by people in "the know" (i.e. SteveSteve) that I went to the crappiest hairdressers in Warrragul.

My hair attendant... well, I don't know her name. Let's call her Janelle.

I imagine that Janelle left high school at year 10. Not for me such pointless things as geometry and conversational French, she declared. She had a loftier purpose, to... MAKE PEOPLE STARS! As she told her parents of her decision, they could see - deep within her eyes - tiny little pulsating points of light.

FAME! FAME! FAME! they seemed to shout with each pulse.

Anyway, one TAFE course in hairdressing and a thousand carefully tended mullets later, Janelle was a tad jaded.

But then I walked in the door. My hair was a nightmare... long, unkempt, another appropriate adjective.

Here was a challenge, she thought... here was some hair that she could SAVE. She would rescue this hair from the torture I had put it through, she would rescue it... finally... all these years.

"How would you like it," she asked me, licking her lips in anticipation, her genitalia moistening as I opened my mouth to say, "Please, Janelle... it's up to you."

"Um... I dunno. Take off about 15 centimetres and neaten it up, I guess," I actually said.

The light in her eyes winked out. For the last time. I had crushed her spirit. I had killed her soul.

She began to cut my hair, barely able to conceal her shock/horror at what I had done to it.

"Have you been cutting this yourself?" she demanded.

"Uh.... no," I said guiltily, "Not that I... not that I can.... uh... recall."

"Are you sure?"

What the fuck was this? The Spanish Inquisition? So, I cut a few hairs out.

She held up the offending hairs... a tear slid down her cheek.

"You bastard," she muttered, nicking my ear with the scissors.

Fifteen dollars later, it was over. I went to my second job, and Janelle went home, ran a bath, cracked open a Bundy & Coke and slit her wrists to the soulful ballads of Shakira.

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