"You Got Your Hair Combed Back And Sunglasses On, Baby"

So I was driving around on some errands today (who needs to get the oil changed so frequently, is my question) and kinda decided on a semi-whim to get my hair cut. I say semi-whim, because I'd been noticing for a while that the ends were getting ragged and throwing it back into a ponytail upon exiting the shower just wasn't going to cut it anymore. It finally all came together and burbled to the surface as I was driving past a place, so I decided to stop in. I knew nothing drastic would happen, as Art (hi, Art!) had already talked me out of having it all chopped off (How many of you have just wanted to go in and have them hack it all away? Yeah, I see you raising your hands. Put them down now, before the blood stops flowing to your extremities and you lose fingers.), so I figured I had it all under control. Except -- except I wasn't figuring on those communists charging me five extra dollars just because my hair is long. What the heck? I just want a trim, it's not like I want seventeen layers or anything fancy like some of your other customers. Discrimination. Pah, disgusting. I paid it anyway, and a nice tip for Kelly who cut my hair, because I like tipping big (I think it's polite and cozy that way) and because what am I going to do, complain? I am not a middle-aged woman driving a minivan, not yet anyway; I do not complain. They have a monopoly on the act, and if you've ever been to a soccer game or the supermarket, you know what I mean. They frighten me. But I won't get into that now, there are plenty of nice moms out there whom I love (hi, nice moms!), and they are much more deserving of my thoughts. The point is, I paid the extra money for not really anything, and now my hair is three inches shorter, and I am three inches happier. Or something.