The Age Of Reason

JFK International Airport
Photo courtesy of Naamtobatao

I was flying out of Des Moines International Airport one time for my first veterinarian seminar to be held in New York...I was really excited to be going anywhere outside the state of Iowa, let alone to a major metropolitan city for the weekend, so my powers of observation were particularly acute that day...Now let me remind you that although Des Moines International isn't exactly JFK, it's still usually pretty crowded on Friday by commuters, vacationers and business people....So the chances of seeing anyone really interesting are pretty much nil...I had already checked in the bulk of my luggage and carried with me only my briefcase and a small leather satchel with a few personal items in it to take on board with me for the duration of the flight...

But as I approached the security station, I noticed a young, dark-haired woman with a pink Hello Kitty backpack on line a short distance ahead of me...When she turned around, I saw that not only was she quite attractive, with warm hazel-colored eyes and a flawless complexion, but she was also close to my age, more importantly though, she had a friendly, open face...Some women can be extremely beautiful, but they just don't "look" very friendly....She did, and that officially made her "my type"...(Not that I actually have a type, but if I did, she'd definitely be it!) We ended up next to each other in line and I was just about to say something witty, clever, and quite possibly brilliant, when the security guy pointed a long, bony finger at me and told me to put my satchel and briefcase on the table....

I was lucky enough to be the one random guy they select for additional screening...(this is apparently my lot in life, as I always seem to be the one guy they always pick out, I was beginning to wonder if people actually thought I "looked" like some kind of terrorist) I was then led into an upright glass coffin, though he referred to it as the "puffer machine"...Has anyone else ever seen one of these things!? You stand in this glass box, the doors shut tightly behind you and then it hits you with little bursts of warm air...

The machine then analyzes the particles in the air while you wait and just hope that the light finally turns green...If it turns red instead, that means it's detected traces of C-4 explosive, anthrax, or something similarly horrible along those lines and you're instantly incinerated...Ok I might be making up the incinerated part, but the rest is true...Luckily, the light turned green and I was released unharmed...

Unfortunately, pink Hello Kitty backpack had moved on...

After buying a bag of individually wrapped pieces of hard candy at the gift shop, (I always have one of these things in my mouth whenever I fly commercial, because it keeps my eardrums from rupturing and bleeding all over my shirt when we finally reach cruising altitude), I saw pink Hello Kitty backpack again...In fact, she ended up down at gate 7, and I was going to gate 6....I quickly sent a text message to my best buddy Sam to let him know I was going in for the nearly impossible "airport pickup" move...

I do this mainly to keep myself from chickening out, as once I made the bold, cocky statement that the day I left Iowa for ANY reason, I'd find myself a traveling companion before I get on the plane, so I knew Sam would mock me mercilessly if I even thought about bailing out...In retrospect, that wasn't any different than how he normally treated me...but Sam does help out with incredibly smooth lines, though...On my return trip he came up with a couple of nearly perfect airport lines, such as:

In a white trash voice, go up to a girl and say, "flyin somewhar's?"

I explained to him that we weren't in Texas, I just had a lay-over there...We were currently in Iowa, so I wasn't exactly sure how anyone would be able to distinguish the difference between a white trash accent, and just plain old cornfield rhetoric...He conceded that was a very good point, and came up with an ever better line...Go up to the woman and say:

"You must be a pilot, cause I'd like to take a tour of your cockcockpit."

At this point I believe I should mention that none of Sam's lines have EVER actually helped me, or anyone else meet a woman...At the time he'd been married to his childhood sweetheart right out of high school, so what did he know about picking up women anyway?! Besides I was already a pilot, and just the mere thought of uttering such a lame pickup line like that one made me cringe....

However, back at the airport in Des Moines...

I walked up to pink Hello Kitty backpack and dropped my satchel and briefcase down next to her...Before I even sat down she looked up at me, smiled and said, "Hi!" See, I knew she had a friendly face...The conversation took off like we were old friends...She was quite interesting, her name was Shelia, and she was entering doctorate school in the fall, but right now she was heading off to Europe for 3 weeks with a group she'd signed up with, without knowing anyone of them...A very adventurous spirit, more bonus points!...

As it turned out, we were both heading to New York on the same flight...Fate didn't actually put us next to one another on the plane, but we talked for the next hour to keep the conversation going while we waited for the very last person to board the plane...

On the plane we were 4 rows apart, but it was a packed flight and they weren't allowing any seat swapping...I did throw a couple of smiles back her way, and when she didn't have her head down solving a sudoku puzzle, she smiled back...Anyone that knows me is well aware that if you give me 5 minutes to think, I can come up with something incredibly dorky to do that very often ends in disaster...Imagine what I could do on a prolonged flight?! I held out as long as humanly possible, but finally something had to be done...The dorkiest thing I could think of was to pass her a note, like back in the 9th grade...Yes! This was a splendid idea! Well done, Nick!

So I wrote her a quick note, (luckily I had a notebook in my briefcase that I'd brought so that I could jot down a few questions during the seminars that had been floating around in my head...Women seem to dig guys that carry around briefcases and notebooks to write stuff down on because it makes them appear as if they actually have a brain) I then walked down the row, handed her one piece of hard candy, one note, smiled my best smile, and walked back to my seat without saying a word...She smiled back, and I could only imagine how anxious she was just to see what I had written....No, seriously.

The note read something like this:

Hi Shelia,

I thought it would be kinda fun to pass you a note like we were back in Jr High...I know, pretty smooth, am I right? Since we both have a lay-over in Texas, would you like to hang out with me for a while after we land? You have to answer in 9th grade fashion, though, so please check the appropriate box:

a)Yes

b)Maybe

c)No

I'm telling you, if women thought I was half as funny as I think I am, I'd be set...However, she was trapped in the center seat, and right after I dropped off the note we began our descent, so I would have to wait until after we landed to get a response...I got off the plane first, and waited for her...She handed me the note back with the "yes" box checked in eye liner as apparently she didn't have a pen...She had even re-folded the note into a paper airplane!...I really like a woman that can play along with my bizarre sense of humor...

We spent the next hour waiting over by my gate, as I had the earlier flight out to New York...We had a great time laughing and joking, but it was the fastest airport lay-over I've ever had in my life...In the end I though I scored her email address, her phone number and a quick hug...Granted, we probably had a different perspective...I believe I was thinking something along the lines of,

"This woman is incredibly cool, sexy and intelligent. I'd really like to go out on a date with her when she gets back from Europe!"

And she was thinking,

"This guy is really cool, intelligent, and has fairly decent looks. A big plus is that he survived the "puffer" machine so he can't be a terrorist. I'd really like to hang out with him for the next 57 minutes until his plane leaves"...

But, that's ok because I believe that 10 years from now she'll be looking out of an airplane window, most likely flying over Nebraska somewhere, and she'll catch herself smiling as she remembers that quirky, funny guy that passed her a note on an airplane all those years ago....Ok, maybe not, but I probably will...

Reason #40 why I'm still single...

Picture courtesy of jessekoves.com

A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk I have a work station...

A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory

A closed mouth gathers no foot.

A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking

A day without sunshine is like, night.

A fool and his money are soon partying.

A little inaccuracy saves a lot of explanation.

A penny saved is worthless.

A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person.

Age is a very high price to pay for maturity.

All things being equal, fat people use more soap.

Always remember you are unique, just like everyone else.

Anything worth fighting for is worth fighting dirty for.

Atheism is a non-prophet organization

Bills travel through the mail at twice the speed of checks

Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.

Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm

Don't sweat the petty things, and don't pet the sweaty things.

Employment application blanks always ask who is to be notified in case of an emergency. I think you should write . . . A Very Good Doctor.

Everything should be made as simple as possible, but no simpler.

Experience is something you don't get until just after you need it

For every action, there is an equal and opposite criticism

Friends may come and go, but enemies accumulate.

Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach him how to fish, and he will sit in a boat and drink beer all day.

Given a 50-50 chance, you will be wrong 90% of the time.

He who laughs last thinks slowest.

Hermits have no peer pressure.

How terrible a movie is, is directly proportional to the number of helicopters in it.

I believe five out of four people have trouble with fractions.

I was thinking about how people seem to read the Bible a whole lot more as they get older then it dawned on me . . . they were cramming for their finals.

If you had to identify, in one word, the reason the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be: "meetings."

If you think there is good in everybody, then you haven't met everybody.

Indecision is the key to flexibility.

It doesn't matter what temperature a room is, it's always room temperature.

Never wrestle with a pig. You both get dirty and the pig likes it.

No matter what happens, somebody will find a way to take it too seriously.

No one is listening until you make a mistake

Nobody is normal.

Nostalgia isn't what it used to be.

Not one shred of evidence supports the notion that life is serious.

On the other hand, you have different fingers.

One nice thing about egotists: They don't talk about other people.

One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.

One-seventh of our life is spent on Monday.

People who feel the need to tell you that they have an excellent sense of humour are telling you that they have no sense of humor at all.

People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them.

Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.

Remember that half the people you know are below average.

Someone who thinks logically is a nice contrast to the real world.

Success always occurs in private and failure in public

Suicide is the most sincere form of self-criticism.

The careful application of terror can also be a form of communication.

The colder the x-ray table, the more of your body is required on it

The early bird may get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.

The hardness of butter is directly proportional to the softness of the bread

The main accomplishment of almost all organized protests is to annoy people who are not in them.

The more you run over a dead cat, the flatter it gets.

The most powerful force in the universe is gossip.

The most valuable function performed by the federal government is entertainment.

The older you get, the better you realize you were.

The only substitute for good manners is fast reflexes

The severity of the itch is inversely proportional to the ability to reach it

The sooner you fall behind the more time you'll have to catch up

There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is: age 11.

There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."

There is absolutely no substitute for a genuine lack of preparation.

There is always one more imbecile than you counted on.

There's a fine line between fishing and just standing on the shore like an idiot..

Things are more like they are today than they ever were before.

To be intoxicated is to feel sophisticated but not be able to say it.

To succeed in politics, it is often necessary to rise above your principles

What a nice night for an evening.

Whenever I think of the past, it brings back so many memories...

You can observe a lot by just watching.

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be misquoted and then used against you.

You never really learn to swear until you learn to drive

You should not confuse your career with your life.

You will never find anybody who can give you a clear and compelling reason we observe Daylight Saving Time.

Your friends love you anyway.

The one thing that unites all humans, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we all believe that we are above average drivers.

At least once per year, some group of scientists will become very excited and announce that:

"The universe is even bigger than they thought!"

"There are even more subatomic particles than they thought!"

"Whatever they announced last year about global warming is wrong!"

The value of advertising is that it tells you the exact opposite of what the advertiser actually thinks. For example: If the advertisement says "This is not your father's Oldsmobile!". the advertiser is desperately concerned that this Oldsmobile, like all other Oldsmobiles, appeals primarily to old farts like your father.

If Coke and Pepsi spend billions to convince you that there are significant differences between these two products, both companies realize that Pepsi and Coke are virtually identical.

If the advertisement strongly suggests that Nike shoes enable athletes to perform amazing feats, Nike wants you to disregard the fact that shoe brand is unrelated to athletic ability.

If Budweiser runs an elaborate advertising campaign stressing the critical importance of a beer's "born on" date, Budweiser knows this factor has virtually nothing to do with how good a beer tastes.

If an advertisement shows a group of cool, attractive youngsters getting excited and high-fiving each other because the refrigerator contains Sunny Delight, the advertiser knows that any real youngster who reacted in this way to this beverage would be considered by his peers to be the world's biggest dipshit.

And on those rare occasions when advertising dares to poke fun at the product - as in the classic Volkswagen Beetle campaign, it's because the advertiser actually thinks the product is pretty good.

If a politician ever ran for president under a slogan such as "Harlam Frubert: Basically, He Wants Attention!"...I would quit my job to work for his campaign.

There apparently exists, somewhere in Los Angeles, a computer that generates concepts for television sitcoms. When TV executives need a new concept, they turn on this computer; after sorting through millions of possible plot premises, it spits out, "THREE QUIRKY BUT ATTRACTIVE YOUNG PEOPLE LIVING IN AN APARTMENT!", and the executives turn this concept into a show.

The next time they need an idea, the computer spits out, "SIX QUIRKY BUT ATTRACTIVE YOUNG PEOPLE LIVING IN AN APARTMENT!" Then the next time, it spits out, "FOUR QUIRKY BUT ATTRACTIVE YOUNG PEOPLE LIVING IN AN APARTMENT!" And so on. We need to locate this computer and destroy it with hammers.

They can hold all the peace talks they want, but there will never be peace in the Middle East. Billions of years from now, when Earth is hurtling toward the Sun and there is nothing left alive on the planet except a few micro-organisms, the micro-organisms living in the Middle East will still be bitter enemies.

When God decides to deliver a message to humanity, he will not use, as his messenger, a person on cable TV with a bad hairstyle.

When trouble arises and things look bad, there is always one individual who perceives a solution and is willing to take command. Very often, that individual is insane.

You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests you think she's pregnant unless you can see an actual baby emerging from her at that moment.

I've spent the last nine years composing my own eulogy...I've never written it down, never even started it, but I've written it a thousand times in my head...Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer I've been obsessed with all aspects of my funeral, who would speak, who would be there...What they would say...

Where it would be held, what kind of music would be chosen...What kind of food would be served at the after-party...I'm an incredibly bizarre individual, (as some of you have already figured out *wry grin*), and it probably won't surprise any of you to know that my funeral's gonna be the hottest ticket around cause it's gonna be crammed to the fucking rafters with mourners...Of course they'll all say they've come to pay their respects, but I know damned well they came for the free food and free entertainment...I want to go out with a bang, I want a black Southern Baptist preacher and a full choir there to sing my ass home...

Then after that, the after-party begins!

Yes I know, dead people really shouldn't be giving after-partys, but how many funerals would you really want to attend where they didn't serve fantastic food and had great music? Along with the Baptist preacher and the full choir, I want the top 100 countdown of the greatest Motown hits blaring out over the speakers...

Then I want those nameless guys to carry my ass out onto a raised pedestal behind the church in the yard, and a huge plate of food stacked next to me on a folding table...That's when I think my eulogy should be read, I mean, it could be stuck in somewhere between Smokey Robinson and The Temptations right?

Yanno, I've brought myself to tears dozens of times with this masturbatory/fetishistic re-imagining of my final words washing out over the assembled and adoring masses...Sometimes funny, chiding yet touching, my eulogy at all times insightful, peaceful and reassuring to the thousands who have gathered to mark the passing of one of the great unheard voices of a generation...Yeah ok whatever, like I'm even close to being anything like that right!?

But I want to arrive at the church resting peacefully in an old fashion black funeral carriage being pulled along somberly yet majestically by two matching bay colored Hackney ponies, their stately heads held high but regal as their hooves softly tip tap along the road to the chapel...There I will be, held aloft and carried inside by several of my closest male companions, ___ and___and___and___and___ (insert several men's names here that you'd like cause I know damned well none of my guy friends would be caught dead carrying MY stupid ass around anywhere!), to be set down tenderly, lovingly upon the funerary pyre for all the adoring, tear filled eyes to gaze back upon...

My still youthful body will be garbed from head to foot in a black Italian silk suit purchased from____, (insert any stupid ass well known designer name you'd like to here cause I hate wearing suits anyway so why even bother?), as the madding crowd goes suddenly hush in grief stricken silence to await my final words of infinite truth and ultimate wisdom...

At the end of the day, why do we write? We write to remember, we write to be remembered, we write to discover who we are, or determine it for others...Our words will always outlive us, immortalizing us if not always powerful enough to make us immortal...Although if we choose our words well, there will always be a way back to life, a way to and fro through time from this dimension to another...Someone will always feel us like it was yesterday, someone will smell our skin again, or see our smiling faces if we choose our words well enough...

If we choose our words well there need not always be a last....If we choose our words well there will always be a way to find us wherever we go...

In my case I've chosen my friend Dimitri to deliver my final words for two reasons...One, his accent is so thick and heavy that no matter what he says or how somber he looks, people are going to start fucking laughing...It's inevitable! So at least I'll know there'll be some scattered tittering in the crowd before everyone simply can't hold it in any longer and the place erupts in uncontrolled laughter...That, would most definitely make me smile...Of course you won't be able to see it, but I've asked the funeral director if they could make me look as if I'm permanently smiling just for the shock and awe value...And two, only Dimitri would have guts enough to look down at my words and read them out loud without having to think about the affect they'd have...

And so the words....

My ultimate words....

I have chosen these final and ultimate words to be spoken before the after-party begins in earnest.

They shall be...

"Yippee ki aye muthafucker!!"

Ok, so Bruce said them first, so what...!? It'll certainly be one funeral you're never going to forget!

Picture courtesy of noveltyradio.com

Ok, normally this wouldn't even have made the pages of my blog, except I thought it might serve as a little wake up call to other guys how NOT to be one!

Getting a shave and a haircut used to be two of the most simplest yet inexpensive pleasures back in the olden days, when there where actually real men called "Barbers" who had real Barber Shops  on real street corners in real small, no-name one horse little towns...Life was good back then, and for somewhere around three dollars, you could not only get the best shave of your entire life, (yes, with hot, moist towels, real shaving cream, and a real straight razor too!), you could also get your hair washed and cut...Yes, I said '"washed"...(I don't ever remember my Mother once yelling out the back door, "Nicholas! Get in here, take a bath and 'shampoo' your hair before supper!)...Sorry, I just don't remember it...

Back when I was a kid a simple bar of Ivory soap cleaned just about every part you had except your hair, and for that you used "Prell" to "wash" it with...When this mystical man called The Barber was finished washing and cutting your hair, (I say cutting only because it's now referred to as 'styling' whatever the fuck that is, and now you have to go to a 'salon' to pick out the 'style' you want from a book of Men's Hairstyles so that the 'stylist' can make you look, "Just like that!" *Big toothy grin*), he would then comb some magical liquid through your hair which resembled blue-colored automobile antifreeze fluid and smelled vaguely of spice and cheap rubbing alcohol...

Well today I went to the salon, *rolls eyes* to get my hair cut, (ok ok 'styled' god dammit!) and to my surprise there was a new gal on the trimming assembly line...A very cute gal...You know the type, small boned, delicate features, short skirt, nice legs in actual pantyhose, (yes I know, it's rare these days to actually even "see" a woman's legs in public...I mean I'd heard rumors that women still had legs, but it was really nice to finally have that rumor confirmed for me), and the most beautiful shoulder length auburn hair I think I've ever seen in my entire life...

After the receptionist informed me that "Alicia", (aka auburn hair, short skirt, really cute gal with legs), was indeed the one slated to take care of me, I suddenly had the bright idea to have the "works" done...shave, shampoo, cut and styling...This would give me at least 30 minutes to try and find out whether or not Alicia was married, single, divorced, dating, a lesbian, whatever...and perhaps even score her phone number if she was available...

As I approached her, Alicia looked up, (green eyes, gasp!) smiled vaguely and said...

"Hi. I'm Alicia..." (snap, pop...snap. Why hadn't I noticed that she had gum in her mouth until just now?)

"Hi, I'm Nick." I replied with a wide, toothy grin as she motioned me into the chair and covered me with a big plastic, brightly colored pink sheet.

"Ok." (snap...pop..snap.) "What do you want today, Nick?"

Oh joy! This is the point when I decide to turn on the boyish, Iowa, corn-fed charm, as trying to look suave, cool and macho in a big plastic brightly colored pink sheet just wasn't going to be an option.

"What are you offering, Alicia?" (Slight smile, look shy. Arch an eyebrow.)

Pop...snap. Pop. Nothing...I had seen artificial plants that had exuded more personality than this woman. She motioned towards the back of the room with a nod of her head.

"Come back here and I'll shampoo your hair first."

So I get up and follow her legs, err, ass, uh dammit...her, to a row of sinks in the rear of the shop to settle myself into an empty chair...Then Alicia stuffs a towel into the back of the big plastic brightly colored pink sheet and tightens it with enough force to sever my wind pipe completely in half and stop respiration entirely. She then hits some previously unknown lever with her left foot that I can't really see, and I go flying backwards, my arms and legs shooting straight out as if I had just been hit with 50 million volts of electricity in a chair that had suddenly become an instrument of torture and death.

Pop. Snap. Pop... I look up at her with hopeful eyes as I hear the rush of water, and she starts running long, thin fingers gently along my scalp through my hair.

"You have great hair, Nick."

"Why thank you, Alicia," I smiled, "so do you!"

"Yeah." Snap...pop. Snap. "I know."

She takes the shower hair-washer thingy and starts to wet down my hair, still running her long, thin fingers along my scalp. Now any human being who has ever had their scalp massaged and their hair washed for them can attest to the fact that the experience is almost erotic, but also very very soothing at the same time. I don't mean like give me a blanket I want to go to sleep in a corner while you do this soothing, but it just instantly relaxes you.You exhale slowly and have to close your eyes. You just have to. It's one of the rules.

I was drifting peacefully in the chair, when I suddenly realized the temperature of the water was only slightly hotter then, oh say, the surface of the fucking sun! My eyes flew open and met hers with a rather startled look on my face.

"Uh Alicia..?"

"Yes Nick?" Pop. Snap. Pop.

"I don't mean to be rude, " I said carefully, "but that water seems to be vulcanizing my scalp!"

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Snap. Pop. Snap....

She adjusted the blazing fire water down to a somewhat more tolerable temperature, washed my hair twice, conditioned it, then merrily set about trying to rattle my brains around inside my cranium while attempting to dry my hair with a towel, after which she hit the lever again and up I popped like some giant pink, plastic-shrouded jack-in-the-box (again with the flying arms and legs thing), and followed her dutifully back to her station. As she began running a comb through my hair, apparently studying it's texture, I tried to come up with something witty and sharp to start a conversation with. I mean, time was running out, I'd already missed the opportunity at the sink, I had to act fast or the whole thing would just end in dismal failure.

I looked at her in the mirror and said,

"So Alicia, what do you do for a living..?" Ok lame, but I was desperate at this point.

She looked back at me with her stunning green eyes, blinked once and replied,

"I cut hair."

"Oh right." I said. "Of course you do!" *Big toothy grin*

Pop. Snap...pop. There was no pitch or tone in her voice whatsoever when she asked,

"What do you do for a living, Nick?"

Comb, fluff, examine. Pop.

"I'm a veterinarian actually." This should have been sufficient enough to spark some kind of reaction. I mean everybody loves animals right? So I expected a smile, an interested look...something. But...nooooo. Nothing. Just, snap. Pop. Snap.

She picked up a pair of scissors from the counter and started combing, separating and fluffing my hair. With a completely blank expression on her face she asked,

"So you don't eat meat, right?"

Huh? What? Uh...Wait.

"No, I eat meat." I replied, almost as confused now as she was. And this was what was going to constitute the bulk of our conversation? Jesus wept.

"I thought you just said you were a vegetarian, Nick. Vegetarians don't eat meat right?"

I tried to work up some semblance of an understanding looking expression and replied,

"No, Alicia. I said I was a 'veterinarian'. Not a 'vegetarian'. Vegetarians don't eat meat. Although some veterinarians probably are vegetarians," I said with a burst of sudden witty sarcasm, "I'm not a vegetarian. I eat meat. So technically that would make me a non-vegetarian veterinarian!" *Big toothy grin*

Pop. Snap. Pop. Blank stare. Comb, separate, fluff. Blank stare.

"Oh." she said." How do you want it styled?"

I suddenly realized, that by being a typically shallow, sex-only, testosterone driven male earlier, chauvinistically attracted only by good her looks and great legs, was now going to present a major stumbling block for any sort of rational intelligent communication between us.

"Just take an inch or two off the top please, trim it up over my ears and around the back. Thank you."

Pop...snap...pop.

"Ok. So you just want it cut."

"Uh, yeah. Just cut it."

"But not styled." Snap. Pop. Snap.

"What's the difference...?"

She stared at my reflection in the mirror as if I were some kind of green, eight-eyed, two-headed alien creature who had suddenly just beamed down into her chair from the Mothership. I heard her sigh. You know the sound, like someone who thinks you should know what they're talking about when really you don't, but they think you're a jackass for not knowing something they think you actually should know? Yeah, that kind of a sigh.

Pause. Snap...pop...snap...Pause. She pulled a book of men's hairstyles out of a drawer at her station and handed it to me. I know it sounds stupid, but this was the first time in my adult life when anyone had ever not just 'cut' my hair without forcing me to choose a 'style' from a book of male models I didn't want to resemble in the least. I closed the book and handed it back to her. Then it was my turn to sigh. I was crestfallen. This is what I got for being attracted to a woman's body first without stopping to see if she actually had enough grey matter to carry on a decent conversation. I was a male, chauvinist pig.

"Can't you just cut it, Alicia?"

Pause. Pop. Snap. Pop. Blink.

Her one word response was so brilliant that it nearly took my breath away.

"Cut."

"Yeah," I said evenly, "cut it."

Snap...pop...snap. Blink. Blank stare. Pause. Fluff. Sigh. Blank stare. Blink.

"Just cut." Pop...snap. "No style."

"Just a simple cut will do nicely, Alicia.Thank you."

"Ok..."

Snap. Pop. Snap.

Reason number eighty-two, why I'm still single...