Saturday, October 16, 2004

The Pig That Tried to Press Its Way Through a Whitewashed Wall But Then Only Got Its Snout Through and Stopped

Realizing that the length of my hair had begun to impinge on my ability to look professional, I finally got a haircut. I had made an appointment with a place Adam had found in his search for an affordable haircut, though notably Adam had never been to this place. (Remember that — it's somewhat important in appreciating this story's punch line.) Nonetheless, this particularly hair cuttery was the closest one to my apartment. So I go in, meet my guy Gary — the embodiment of the type of sass that only gay black men can have, plus a pair of scissors — and sit down.

It's not until I sit up from having my hair washed and I look around the room that I realize that this particular salon's present clientele consisted entire of black, middle-aged women. Gary spins my chair around and I see a display of cosmetic products reflected in my mirror: "SSIM YNOBE," or in non-reverso land, the latest products in the Ebony Miss beauty line. "So what kind of people usually get their hair cut here?" I ask. Gary admits that today's clientele is pretty much representative of every day. "Mostly middle-aged, upper-class black ladies. Mostly," he admitted. "But we can cut white guys' hair too."

And he did.

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