XPost: alt.alien.vampire.flonk.flonk.flonk, alt.usenet.kooks, re   
   .aviation.military   
   From: Sm@rt.1   
      
   Wavy G  wrote in   
   news:os4sp3pqj0rietctnllogo96b2gmp60eau@4ax.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."   
   >   
   I'm outraged.   
      
      
   Bertie   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)