- Personal -

I had to get a haircut, Saturday. My guy is awesome, technically. He's just a creep. I wouldn't want to get a haircut from him in a dark alley, y'know? I guess that's pretty unlikely. I couldn't even find him, for a while: he quit the usual salon, near my house, and nobody there could tell me where he went. My next two haircuts were far substandard, reinforcing my good opinion, creepiness aside. Then, one day, there he was again -- no explanation.

This was my first haircut with him since he returned. At first, things were normal. After the cut, he glanced surreptitiously around the room and smuggled non-salon-endorsed, unlabeled product out of his cabinet with which to style my hair. You see? Creepy. And then, once I'd admired his masterful-as-always job in the mirror, he said, "You can just settle up with me, actually." Hm? I was confused at first, and it must've shown, because he clarified under his breath: "The salon takes a ridiculous cut, man."

He wanted to cut out the middle man, eh? I was down, for sure. I'm a fan of anything out of the ordinary. There was a problem, though. I don't carry cash. "Hmm, okay. You can drop by sometime next week." That was even better. Now, I get to saunter into the salon sometime, slip him some Jeffersons, and saunter out. It'll be just like Ocean's Eleven, except in a salon rather than a casino. Maybe creepy stylists aren't so bad. You go in as a customer, you come out as Danny Ocean.