On a 1-10 scale with 1 being a Zen-like state of tranquility and 10 being a murderous climb-to-the-top-of-a-tower-with-a-high-caliber-rifle blood-red rage, where would you place a bad haircut? I suppose it would depend on how much of a narcissist you were. It probably shouldn’t count for much, right?
After five years of perfection, Jenny unexpectedly left the hair salon without a word of warning. She left me in the hands of a butcher. The Demon Barber of Route 35. Two months ago, Jenna, my masseuse, left the spa unexpectedly as well. Neither of those two trollops left a forwarding address. How much dumping can one man take in such a short period of time and not snap? Do you have any idea how time consuming and expensive it is to brainwash someone into delivering a consistently perfect haircut? And don’t get me started on training a new masseuse! Jenna knew just where I ached. I jest with Mrs. Wife that getting a massage is the only legitimate way I can get another woman to put her hands on me and not have it result in divorce proceedings. Celebrating 10 years of fidelity. Do you think that was easy? For either of us?