I got a shitty $95 haircut last week. I always have such intense haircut anxiety, and I think a high price will ensure high quality, a fallacy you’d think I would have recognized after wasting countless amounts of legal tender on every bullshit organic conditioner at Whole Foods made from crushed boysenberry seeds and local elephant cum.*
“I want to try and round out your head,” the stylist announced at the beginning, “you know, and help with your jawline.”
I smiled, nodded, and died a little.
“Have you ever thought about coloring your eyebrows?” she asked a little later.
“No,” I replied, “I haven’t.”
“I think it would really help,” she said, not specifying with what, but we both knew.
$95 for that, for 35 minutes of someone standing over me chewing gum and vaguely insulting me — an experience, for the record, that I can get on OK Cupid gratis. $95! That’s nine lunches, that’s three copies of Justice Sotomayor’s memoirs, that’s one Broadway show. I’m an idiot.
* All elephants are humanely-coaxed.