XPost: alt.alien.vampire.flonk.flonk.flonk, alt.usenet.kooks, re   
   .aviation.military   
   From: godsspeciallamb@gmail.com   
      
   Attention newsgroup friends: I have some disturbing news to report to   
   you all.  Last week I went to get my hair cut (please don't make the   
   obvious joke about how it should be worded "hairs cut" because, a] of   
   the serious nature of this post and, b] that's really tiresome) at one   
   of these discount hair salons.  Now, as you are all probably aware, most   
   of the people they hire to cut hair these days are girls (at least in   
   the places I've lived).  Therein the problem lies.   
      
   Remember the old days, when you'd go down the street to the corner   
   "barbershop," and get your hair cut by a kindly old man in a white   
   jacket with a comb in his pocket?  And at any given time, during normal   
   business hours, you'd see the men of the town sitting around at the   
   local barbershop, gossiping, reading the paper, playing checkers,   
   talking about the weather, etcetera.  It was like the "boys club." Well,   
   no, I don't really remember those days, but I've seen that sort of stuff   
   in movies and on "Saturday Evening Post" calendars and stuff.   
      
   Anyway, I'm sitting there at the hair salon, waiting to be called on,   
   and perusing one of those dated hairstyle selection books, (which looked   
   more like a bunch of "In Living Color" publicity stills, circa 1992) for   
   what seemed like half-an-eon.  During an apparent break between smoking   
   and gabbing on the phone, the girl finally decided to come up front and   
   look at the sign-in sheet.  I was brimming with anticipation; I knew I   
   was next!  She called my name and I looked up, all surprised-like, as if   
   I hadn't been expecting them to call me so quickly, and headed on back   
   to get my hair trimmed.  This is where it all went bad...   
      
   I sat down in the chair, and the girl put the cloth around my neck, and,   
   skipping the small-talk, she boldly asked me, "How do you want your hair   
   cut today, hon?"  WHAT?!?!  Did I just hear what I think I heard?  Did   
   this girl just call me "hon"?  No, she couldn't have, not in this day   
   and age.  I thought I would just let it slide and pretend it didn't   
   happen.  She went on...  "Can you tip your head down for me,   
   sweetheart?"  What?  "Sweetheart"???  She used another sexually-tilted   
   term, as though trying to make a "pass" at me.  And, as if that weren't   
   bad enough already, she used the term "hon" again, only this time   
   coupled with a blunt and offensive proclamation that she was going to do   
   her best to "keep [me] handsome."  I was officially a victim of sexual   
   abuse.   
      
   How could this happen?  Aren't these girls trained to work with the   
   public?  Don't they know that this sort of behaviour is inappropriate   
   these days?  I mean, you would think that in the 21st century (Wow, that   
   sounds weird saying, doesn't it?  It's like we're all living in the   
   future and shit.) a man could go into a hair salon, or any place of   
   commerce, without having to worry about being harassed by the sex-crazed   
   females hired to work there for pittance.  I just couldn't take it any   
   more.  Finally, she said, "well, you're all finished, 'handsome,'" (as   
   if not acknowledging it the first go around means I didn't hear it).   
      
   I got up from the chair and walked away, brushing my own follicle   
   trimmings off my person, as if symbolically shedding what little dignity   
   hadn't already ended up with the sweepings on the floor.  Though I was   
   doing all I could not to cry, I knew I had to be strong.  I held my head   
   up, and walked up to the counter to pay for her services, and to get my   
   preferred customer card stamped.  I tipped her, because I am an honest   
   gentleman, but I assure you it was meagerly.  As I walked out to my car,   
   holding on to what shred of dignity I had left, I felt a cool breeze   
   tickle the clippings that had fallen on the back of my neck, and I   
   longed for the days of the "Saturday Evening Post."   
      
   --   
   Mimus hasn't written anything funny about me lately.   
      
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   *               Wavy G                        *   
   *             mail me at:                           *   
   *    godsspeciallamb@gmail.com                                  *   
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   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)