Shaving the caveman

To the hairstylist who cut my hair yesterday:

I apologize for letting my hair go for so long. That couldn't have been fun to deal with. I could tell you weren't thrilled, judging from the smirk on your face when I walked in the salon. [Somewhere in New York, Mis Hooz is laughing at my use of the word "salon," given the cheap-ass chophouse where I had my hair cut. Man, did she give me a tongue-lashing about that.] Your fingers have to be sore from scissoring. And that was a lot of hair to broom off the floor. I never intended to go four months without cutting my hair. It just seemed like the natural thing to do, along with growing the beard. Recent events have required that I rejoin society, so I thought it would be a good idea if my ears and forehead were visible again.

[To those who may be concerned: Don't worry, I still have the beard! There was some trimming yesterday, but I'm not shaving it off yet. Not after putting so much, um, non-shaving into it. And not while that cold-as-hell wind wants to bite my cute cheeks.]

I thank you for your time and patience, hairdresser lady. And I hope the tip was sufficient. I never know how much to tip hairdressers. I used to have a "regular" stylist, like all the hip people, and she told me I didn't have to tip her since I was a "frequent client." That reminds me of this one time when she was shopping at Borders when I worked there. She asked if I was in, but I was on a lunch break. So she told one of my co-workers that she'd stopped in to say hi, and said I was "one of her clients." Rumors immediately began to circulate throughout the bookstore as to what sort of services I was receiving.

Unfortunately, I lost contact with her after I left for Iowa. I should've checked in at her salon to see if she still worked there. I could've told her I'd been living in the wild, after being stranded by a plane crash. You know, like Lost. Although I probably look too well-fed to make such a story convincing.

Anyway, I'm digressing. Again, I thank you for making me look somewhat presentable. My mother is now willing to see me again - and more importantly, feed me. I hope she'll whip up a batch of her famous fried rice to console me. See, I already miss that hair. Oh, what have I done?