Saturday, September 27, 2008
I hate my haircut and your band
I got a haircut the other day at Supercuts, the Wal-Mart of hair salons. Why subject myself to such indignities? Well, Supercuts is cheap, and my hair usually looks the same no matter how much I spend to get it cut.

The woman who cut my hair was very attractive, a notch or two above the skeezes who usually work the discount head-hack circuit. However, since I wasn't spending a lot of money, she didn't put her tits on me.

Allow me to explain. Once, when I lived in Las Vegas, I went to a fancy, pricey hair salon/spa and was attended to by a nubile young lass who proceeded to rub her boobies all over my face and head for the duration of the shampoo and cut. While this lady had perfectly perky breasts, they weren't so large that contact couldn't have been avoided. This was intentional boob to face contact, my friends. She stood in front of me with her boobs in my face when she cut the back of my head! I was very happy until they told me how much money I owed. I quickly paid without complaint, fearful that her pimp would come out of the back room and pistol-whip me if I bitched about it.

Back to the present, I might have to reconsider this whole Supercuts thing, because I'm not at all fond of my Marine haircut. It looks like I fell asleep in the chair. You know how in the movies there's always an out of shape guy who joins the Army and gets called a fat sack of shit by the drill Sergeant? I look like that guy; the guy who can't do twenty-five push-ups so they make the entire platoon do a hundred push-ups while I stand before them eating a large Toblerone bar. Then later that night I'm brutally beaten by bars of soap wrapped in hand towels. That's me and my new haircut. It'll grow out, that's the best I can say.

As if it isn't enough that I have to walk around looking like Gomer Pyle's fat cousin, Biscuit Pyle, yesterday at work I had to deal with the most infuriating person in the history of infuriation.

A little front story, if you'll indulge me: State law declares that all persons who enter a liquor store have to be 21 and able to prove it with a valid ID, with the obvious exception of children with a parent. If there are three people in your party, all three have to have valid ID even if only one person is making a purchase. This is posted EVERYWHERE in our store.

Along comes two young douchebags, one girl and a guy wearing a wool hat AND a red hoodie, even though it's 80 degrees outside. I tell the cashiers "Make sure Little Red Riding Hood has his ID." Of course, he doesn't. We explain the STATE LAW to them, and that's when the drama begins.

The girl starts whining, "But we have to get this for the band that's playing down the street at Club Oasis, and I'm on a tight schedule."

Oh, you're on a tight schedule? Well then, allow us to risk our jobs for you, your highness.

I politely (not very politely) say "The people behind you in line are also on a tight schedule," and move her shopping cart out of the checkout lane.

By then, the hat/hoodie kid has gone back to the van, ready to solve another groovy mystery at the nearest abandoned amusement park. The girl stays her ground, name dropping the once-semi-famous band, some crappy nu metal bullshit that's supposed to impress me. (I'm not going to mention the band's name, because if the ten people who read this blog see that name it will double the publicity the band has received since 2001.) By now another cashier supervisor is in on the conversation, stating that he doesn't care if the booze is for the Rolling Stones; we aren't selling it to her. It doesn't matter. She keeps talking and talking and talking, amazingly saying nothing remotely intelligent.

"It's for the band. This is ridiculous," she caterwauls. When she reaches for her cell phone, obviously to call the President of Palsy-Twated Simpletons, I can feel my blood pressure about to reach stroke levels.

I have two options. The first is to scream this at her: "You'd better thank the God of Pox-Faced Come-Buckets that I don't have a sister, or I'd have her come over here and beat you till she sees bone!"

The second, which I choose, is to walk away. I call the manager on duty over, saying "I'm done talking to this person." I walk to the back of the store, where I can't hear her insipid little voice. I come back a few minutes later and she's gone.

I hope one of the band's roadies gives her chlamydia.


9 Comments:

Blogger Lil Sass said...

God I love Chlamydia jokes.

Have you been to Olympic Gardens in Vegas (also called 'The OG')? That place is heaven on earth!!

Are you talking about that girl that used to cut my hair? She did rub her big tits on your face. I remember you commenting about it that day we were there. Nice.

Blogger Tits McGee said...

This is so wrong.

Come visit me and I'll give you the finest salon experience of your life.

And your hair'll look good too. ;)

Blogger the_LuLi said...

Aw, the poor little groupie. It does sound like a gay rule though. Very thorough, how do people underage drink with such restrictions? Society couldn't function!

Blogger Scarlet Hip said...

Why do they need to buy alcohol for a band that's playing at a club?

Blogger Übermilf said...

Brooke took the words out of my mouth.

Blogger country roads said...

I used to pay too much for haircuts for that same reason. I miss it. I think I'll let my hair grow back out.

Blogger Pretty Lush said...

Ack. Sorry, Pile.

Blogger kevin said...

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