Fortunately the hairdresser, Steve, is one of the type that recognize that I would rather gnaw my own arm off than engage in conversation while my hair is being cut. On the other hand, he might be a mute. The sum of conversation during the procedure is:
- Discussion of style of hair:
Him: (waving hand by my ear) Mmmh?
Me: Yes. I think so...
- On completion of the task:
Him: (flashing hand mirror behind my head so I can glimpse my right ear, the back of my neck, and part of a tuft of hair) Uh?
Me: Ah, yes, that’s, uh, good.
Sitting down, I realize that this is the first time I’ve been in in front of a mirror for more than about two minutes in months. A quick glance reminds me why - my face has the greyish pallor of people who only go outside for ten minutes a week, and corpses. After that I steadfastly avoid looking in the mirror.
As I sit there, I start to plan out a node describing my experience, creating a horrible stream-of-consciousness-paradox thing, so I have to avoid thinking about that. My mind wanders to other things of e2, and, as I always do in situations like this, I think of something funny, grin like a maniac, manage to get my face straight again, then think of something else hilariously funny, grin like a maniac - and so on. I must look completely insane. It’s a good thing I’m not looking in the mirror.
Eventually the task is complete and I look up at the mirror again. And do you know what? It looks really bad. I look not unlike a chipmunk, albeit a slightly longer-haired version than would usually be found in nature. Just like last time Steve cut my hair, actually. Ah well.