6/14/95, NYC Past.
Don Quixote with a bad hair day.
My life often seems like a long chain of one bad
haircut after anther. After my really bad winter haircut at Salon Ziba
home of pooh-pooh-more-beautiful-than-you-Eurotrash, where cheap techno
is blasted through cheap speakers and people pay money to stare into the
softly lit mirrors and say to themselves, "Oh, don't I look sassy!"
I had figured that paying the $25 bucks at this place might save me my
usual two weeks of post-haircut blues. But boy was I wrong. I had told
them I wasn't going to pay (why the fuck should I pay for misery) and finally
had to settle for a pass to get free haircut the next time. I came back
in the spring, and the woman tells me that I can't use the pass- its too
long afterwards. What a crock of shit. So I bitched until I got to speak
to the manager, who agreed to let me pay just half price. I ended up with
this beautiful South American stylist with sexy long black hair.
"I sense you are a Don Quixote," she
"Wow, you must be spiritual perceptive to
know that. I am Don Quixote. Now I like to say I'm a Dolphin," I said.
"I'm a dolphin too," she said.
I was so excited to meet someone who might be
a fellow dolphin that I didn't notice her cutting my hair too short. (Sort
of like when I tried to be one with the Sea, and shut my eyes while swimming.
I swallowed a mouthful of water.) It was the worst haircut I had in years.
"Great, now I'll have to wear my hat every
day for another month," I said to her after she finished the fiasco.