Sadurday

I have never really blogged about an average day much like the others in the blogging community do. Thought I might giv’er a whirl.

I woke up around 9am to my alarm and then again at 10:30AM to the sounds of Decker shewing out an orange tabby cat who had wondered in our open front door. Apparently the taunts of my local tribal community had convinced my sub conscious of my need for some new apparel and a mop cut. I thought today would be ideal to stroll-on up to join the worshipers at the heathen temple of material lusting and see what I could do.

Poking my shaggy head into the first couple stores I had to double-check the signs. I wasn't quite sure what to think, did I walk into the Salvation Army Thrift Store? Off the Wall? Perhaps it was a new store Bootbegger -- it appeared the clothes all boasted torn crotch holes and 50+ cycles of washtime. These were the ones I was trying to replace. Glancing at the prices inspired a scheme of openning up a high fashion retail outlet with the pile of unwashed grubs in my basement. Buy a few manikins for the front window, I had a tackle box I could use for a til...

Awoken from my daze by the commission sales staff I politely acknowledged with my standard smile-n-nod. "Just looking for some clothes that weren't hemmed with a meat grinder!". The scenario repeated itself over a couple of hours with the notable exception of Sears and the Bay where the selection included Arnold Palmer's personal line of geriatric wear, Tommy Hilfiger Sandwich boards and World Poker Championship T's. Through all this, I managed satisfy my style ego with a shirt, pants and a pre-worn hoodie, leaving me to attend to my hair which had received its fair share of awkward glances over the day.

Many out there may know that I have not been to a hair dresser in over two years, others now understand. Feeling the need for some professional help,I lurched pass a number of hair salons lined with rows of space-aged pillow chairs and ladies sporting the latest in tin foil technology. Then I walked by again, hummed-hawed, again, finally on the fourth pass I had the knads to ventured inside. After discussing with the booking agent Marque (figured it must have been spelt with a q) I decided that any place with a dedicated appointment maker would cost even more than that 3-pack of pre-worn tighty whities I'd passed earlier. Fortunatly for me, the next consultation slot was over an hour away so, me, my wallet and hair managed to escape inviolated.

A few more half-baked attempts yielded similar results then a sign for the Eastern-Latvian School of Hair Growth Management came into view.... $6 how could go I wrong? They have instructors and should be used to dealing with lots of hair, right?!? Before I could pronounce my hairdresser's name I was seated, choked and sprayed. Carefully articulating my desires to further pursue my bum stylin' but with less transient and more of an established urban slum feel, my hair and dreams began sliding down the smock to the floor. Two pounds of hair later, it was hard to scale the damage; something was wrong, I couldn't quite place it.

Two pounds of gel passed, I counted my losses, paid my fee and came home for a closer survey of the ol'mop. Half way between a mullet and a bowl cut, I sighed, yanked out my Fiskers and went to work.

Good thing I know how to cut hair.