Cut it Out

I stare blankly through unfocused eyes as the babbling vacuous chatter washes unpleasantly over me. I am drowning in a sea of another’s misguided self-importance, suffocating in the violent throes of frivolity as one dim-witted anecdote collapses into the next chronicle of the inconsequential. So, you grew up in Cowtownville, well congratulations. So, mom and pop were supportive of your dream to become a hair stylist, how delightful. You have adorable friends who throw super cool Halloween parties with ironic themes, please wait while I phone the Times.

This is exactly why it takes me several months to drag myself back to the salon. I prefer to let my ends split and to flirt with unibomber status locks just so I am not forced to pay to sit and listen to some absurd lady detail how her boyfriend once challenged her to a hair growing contest and won.

And as the latest inane story lapses into another transitory hush, I am given to hope that maybe this time the quiet will remain. Perhaps she is not as dense as she seems and has learned that silence is not only golden, but also favored. Yet not even before my forced polite smile fades back to a grimace, another cacophony ransacks my eardrums.

As if the fleshed-out autobiography was not enough, she hits me with the third degree interrogation. What do you do, where do you live, did you grow up here, are you doing anything today, any big parties this weekend you are attending. On and on and on.

Listen, if I wanted to talk about my job, my background, or my social life with a complete stranger, I would get a therapist. If I wanted companionship, I would get a dog. I do not ask you questions about your pointless existence. Take a hint, don’t ask me about mine.

I am here for expressly one purpose and one purpose alone: for you to render a service. Wait what’s that? You are telling me that cows were literally wandering around in the supermarket parking lot in the town where you grew up… No. Freaking. Way.

Hey lady, please just shut up and cut my hair!!!