NOW PLAYING: No, Ma'am 30 December, 1997 By that, I mean that as I prepared to pay for my lunch, the cashier asked, "May I help you, Ma'am?" I began to say, "Well..." and she evidently got a better look and apologized. "Sorry -- I mean, sir." I HATE when that happens. It's not the first time this has happened to me. And it means I'm overdue for a haircut. I know its the hair. There may have been some contributing factors in this particular case -- I was wearing a big, bulky sweater with a couple shirts on underneath, I was clean-shaven, and was looking down into my wallet to grab my lunch money, so giving the cashier the benefit of the doubt, she probably just saw the curls -- but the hair is still the key. I'm lucky enough to have inherited from my Mom's side of the family a thick, naturally curly head of the stuff. My Dad only has the remains of his hair on the sides and back of his head. He used to comb about 13 longer strands of it from one side to the other across the top of his bald pate, but gave that up a couple years ago. Succumbed to the inevitable. Not having that problem, I tend to run a cycle of getting my hair cut short, then letting it grow long for a few months, then cutting it short again. It was really long a few years ago when I was a photographer -- not Robert Plant long, but long enough -- but now that I'm CorporateWebGuy I can't do that anymore. And The Wife, for some reason, likes my hair short, too. Me, I like it on the long side, although if it's not cut correctly, it'll bush up pretty bad as it gets long -- all those curls -- and The Wife calls me "Q-Tip." Not as bad as "Ma'am" but still not high on my list of favorite nicknames. I can't remember if I'd gotten "Ma'am"-ed just before my last haircut or not -- those are the kinds of things my mind is likely to try and block out -- but its happened to me far more often than I'd like it to. The "Ma'am"-ing seems to happen almost always in restaurants, too. I don't know what the connection is, but imagine, if you will, how embarassing it is to walk into a restaurant with a date and have the host(ess) say, "Good evening, ladies. Two for dinner?" Where do you suppose the evening goes from there? Anyway, the last time I got my hair cut, I'd just moved. I had a great stylist when I lived here before, and as luck would have it, she's still around. Of course, she was booked solid when I needed a cut -- and I couldn't wait another two weeks. No way. So I went to SuperClips or GreatCuts or one of those places, and guess what? One month later I was "Ma'am"-ed. Now to be fair, at least the girl at the ClipJoint didn't butcher my hair, and it looked OK for a week or two, and it was my first time in the place, and I know it only cost nine bucks and what are you complaining about? But the first time Laurie cut my hair it was terrific -- she used a straight-razor to cut it, and it you've never had that done, let me tell you it's a treat -- and I was amazed at the difference. I'd always been a Ten-Dollar-Haircut-Guy (and according to my friend Paula it showed) and since my hair grows like Kudzu on the day after a heavy rain in July, it didn't matter to me; in two weeks It'd be grown out. Now I'm spoiled, and I need a good haircut. Like if all you were used to was drinking Bud from a can and one day you get a glass of Newcastle on tap -- you aren't going to want to drink that piss-beer again unless you're totally desperate. You don't know what you're missing out on until you've experienced it, and once you do, you won't willingly settle for less. So I've got an appointment with Laurie next week. And then that'll be MISTER Dan to you, pal.
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