I recently got my hair cut, and I just want to say one thing to all the employees of SuperCuts and Fantastic Sam’s and places like that: Leave me the fuck alone! I realize they are required by law to make inane chit-chat and put me “at ease” while they hack off my lettuce, but most of these people need to learn to take a hint or five. If your first two attempts at conversation result in nothing more than mumbled one-word responses and an absence of eye-contact, maybe it’s time to focus on making me beautiful and direct your conversation back to the voices in your head. You know, the ones that told you it was a good idea to choose a career where you touch strangers’ disgusting heads all day.

It’s not that I am unfriendly or anything; I just could never get with the whole “small talk for the sake of small talk” thing. If you have nothing of interest to say, why is it so wrong to just not say anything? I can see some people might be uncomfortable with the awkward silences, but if that is your f-ing job, you need to get used to it at some point, right? As if having your hands all up on some guy’s dome isn’t awkward enough in itself. Besides, you’re not a bartender; nobody comes to Great Clips to complain about their ex-wife and “haircut all their problems away.” I am there to have less hair on my head; the quicker the better, please.

Here is a brief recap of my last visit:

“Looks about time for a trim, huh?”

“Yeah, just a little off the top and a 2 1/2 on the sides and the back I guess.”

“Wow, your hair is really fine, it’s messing up my clipper.”


“So did you just get off work?”

“I had the day off today.”

“Do you go to school?”




“Oh yeah, my daughter goes there.”


“So what are you studying?”

“Computer Science.”

“Oh, ok, ok… Ha ha, maybe you can come over to my house and show me how to get rid of all these darn pop-up ads!”


“So where do you work?”

“I work about three shifts a week at OH MY FILTHY CHRIST, WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP AND CUT MY FUCKING HAIR, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! I’m 28, I’m an Aquarius, I have three little brothers, I didn’t vote, I don’t watch American Idol, my johnson curves a little to the left! Is there anything else!? OK THEN! SNIP-SNIP, BITCH! SNIP-SNIP!”


Ok, I might be exaggerating a bit. But really, is it too much to ask to be able to just go in and zone out for a bit? I’m already on edge due to the knowledge that the way I look for the next month or so depends on the skill of this broad with the pit stains (whose own hair is more than questionable). I just want to sit down, stare at the hot receptionist through the mirror, and pretend that the blue shit the combs are floating in is delicious Ice Blue Kool-Aid (even though I’m almost positive it’s not).

And on a related note, what is with this new trend of businesses asking for your fucking phone number whenever you buy something? I blame Radio Shack. They started doing that shit like 10 years ago. Now other businesses are saying to themselves, “Unnecessarily bothering customers by asking for personal information when they are just trying to buy a screwdriver, thereby making them less likely to return for fear of the hassle? Why didn’t we think of that?” At least at the hair places, they use it to keep track of your hair preferences. That way, the ten seconds it takes them to look the shit up allows them to save the three seconds it would take for me to actually use words and tell them. But when I go to Sam Ash and I want to buy some guitar strings, or, for example, a pick that costs 30 cents, I have to fight off the barrage of questions in addition to the dozens of circling salesfuckers. It’s gotten to the point where I have started fake-numbering these people. Cold, I know, but I have no choice.


I was watching an old episode of Saved By the Bell the other day, and it got me thinking. Did anyone ever notice how similar the first two seasons are to Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? Think about it: They both had the boyishly handsome protagonist, who got himself in wacky predicaments and almost got caught like 18 times but ultimately got away by the skin of his teeth; and you always rooted for them because of their handsome boyishness. They both had the nerdy, insecure best friend. They both had the boyishly handsome protagonist banging (I mean, “going steady with”) the hottest hot chick in the school. They both had the ineptly villainous principal who wanted nothing more then to put the handsomely boyish protagonist in detention for a month. Shit, in the early days, Zack Morris would even break the fourth wall and start talking to the camera all Bueller-style. And you know he and Screech would have come up with that tape-recorded doorbell answerer if it hadn’t been done already. All we need to make the similarity complete now is for Dennis Haskins to get arrested soon for kiddie porn. Come on, Mr. B! Make it happen!

Notice how I said “first two seasons”? That’s because, starting around junior year or so, the show started getting all different. Zack became less boyishly handsome and more adolescently greasy, Kelly Kapowski got a rack, Mario Lopez ended his endorsement deal with Z. Cavaricci, and Screech went immediately from being sort of a goofy kid to full-fledged freak with no warning whatsoever. And the show got away from the surreal weirdness of the early years and sort of became a more normal teen show. Which meant they had to get rid of Screech’s ridiculous robot (the tastefully named Kevin) and that retarded magician waiter who served no purpose whatsoever. That was also the end of such plausible storylines as Screech getting ESP from a lightning bolt and Casey Kasem hosting dance competitions at the Max.

In the later years, the show got all preachy, and I learned some valuable life lessons. Among them:

–Driving drunk is bad.

–It is NOT ok to not be attracted to fat chicks. However, they do like it if you dance with them once out of pity.

–Big oil companies are evil, because they cover ducks with oil and don’t even care.

–Doing “dope” is bad, even if you are Johnny Dakota.

–Just because the new chick wears motorcycle gear and talks like a dude doesn’t mean she is a lesbian. She might just be a fugly girl in motorcyle gear that talks like a dude.

–Beware of “OD”-ing on caffeine pills. You might just have a hilariously melodramatic meltdown in front of your friends.

I imagine if there was a “Ferris Bueller 2” it might be similar. Cameron successfully becomes an emancipated minor after having his face shattered by his overbearing father, Ferris and Mr. Rooney grudgingly develop a mutual respect for each other, and Jennifer Grey is lured into a life of crime and drugs by Charlie Sheen.

Actually, that might be the worst movie ever.