Snip Snip

Eons ago, I worked for a publishing house specializing in men's leisure magazines. Not what you would think, although I would have found any manner of porn far more interesting than hunting, golfing, and fishing. At the time, I was given to chameleon-like quick changes of hair. One day, it was "Daughter of Darkness" and the next it could be "GI Gina".

It is precisely this impetuousness that many blame for the staggering number of disappointments I have suffered at the hands of Poughkeepise Area hairstylists. When I feel the need for a cut and/or colour, I am likely to put it off for a maximum of 24 hours. The general consensus is that any stylist that can take a walk-in on a whim is not worth his/her weight in shears; good stylists are booked because they have loyal clientele.

While I am loathed to admit this -- simply because bespeaks the nadir of my conversion to suburbanite -- but some of the best haircuts I have received have been at the salon...at...the...mall. At the mall! In a salon that desperately clutches at some warped suburban interpretation of (New York) City Hip. Pink hair! Tattoos! Loud music! Hip! Hip! Hip!

While I think she did a rather nice job, I am slightly disappointed. I look no more like Alyssa Milano or Audrey Tautou than I did yesterday, but doubt if I can pin the blame on the stylist for that. She did the best she could with what she had to work with.