Dec. 28th, 2011

And the thing is, my hair has needed cutting for MONTHS, but I had a groupon for a place that I cleverly failed to notice is a half-hour drive away from where I ACTUALLY LIVE, so it had to wait until I could get there. I'd never been before, and will never go again--half an HOUR's drive, I am such a moron--but the guy who cut my hair was. Um. Just. Totally whackjob entertaining. In the course of washing, conditioning, cutting, and styling my hair, he told me:

~about the contact high he got at a concert last week that apparently made him crave mass amounts of Mexican food

~about his friend who owns a moving company and who is like, the Best Dad Ever, and taught his budding engineer son how to create a six-tree tree house with pulley-system ziplines between trees and working electricity from cords he made himself out of junk from the hardware store

~about this guy he knows who honestly believes in the zombie apocalypse, and lives in a pseudo-military compound with eleven billion guns and a specially designed military-issue vehicle designed to run on a special kind of fuel. He keeps enough of that fuel ON HAND to drive to Seattle, where he has a boat, which is always kept fueled enough to get him to the island he OWNS off the coast of Seattle. The specially-designed vehicle has a scoop on the front with robot arms that will cut off zombie legs, and all the windows are three inches thick except for the holes at the top where you can stick the guns out to shoot at the zombies

~about the sheriff in the small Montana town where his grandmother lives, who never arrested anybody for underage drinking, just took their keys and made them come pick up their cars at the police station with their parents the next morning. Similarly, the sheriff never troubled a man who had trained his horse to carry his dead-drunk self all the way home from the bar and lock the gate behind it.

~about his second, part-time job being the mascot for the Utah hockey team. I'm trying not to see it as a sign that I really will fall for hockey RPS. I'm...mostly failing.


(Actual HAIRCUT, okay. I wish I knew why all hairdressers, especially the ones I tell how I want my hair to curl/wave, think I should be flatironed to hell and back. I mean, it really only affects me until I get in the shower, it's no big deal, it's just...why???)



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