But I Got A Good Haircut
I got my hair cut last week. At the place I use, they always have me sign in. When they are done, the lady who cut my hair initials it. I never knew why until this most recent visit.
The phone rang. I heard bits of the conversation. "She did what? Well, I'm sorry ma'am. Who was it that cut your hair?" There was a long-ish pause and the lady made a confused face. "Really? Uh... OK. I'll check."
She hung up and announced to the room at large, "That customer says the lady who cut her hair was old and heavy-set."
Here I should mention an important detail. Every person cutting hair was a lady. None were older than 30. None were even the slightest bit overweight.
"Did you get her name?" The ladies descended on the list. They found where the offended customer had signed in. "Who cut her hair?" "It was Stacy!"
Across from me, the shortest, youngest, and thinnest of the hair-cutters looked up in horror. She was so small I could fold her up and put her in my pocket. "What?!?"
"Hey Stacy, apparently you're old and fat!" "No! I'm only 21!" "Are those dog years?" "No!" "Those jeans must be REALLY slimming!"
Stacy made mock slapping gestures at all of them. All of us guys getting haircuts exchanged glances. This was dangerous territory. The ladies were having fun, but if a male were to make a joke here it could end very badly. Silently, we all nodded to each other. Mutual ignorance and shared deafness were our only chance.
As I paid my bill, the lady made a comment about Stacy. "She's the most petite of all of us, isn't she?"
Desperation hit like a hammer. I pointed randomly. "Look! A thing!"
I ran for it while she was distracted.
My hair looks awesome this week, and as an added bonus, I got out alive.