These are times that try men's souls
These are times that try men's souls.
I was introduced recently to a stranger who, as it later turned out, happened to be a hairdresser. Is that the word? My friend said my name and the hairdresser says something to the effect of: "The painter?"
This is amusing on several levels, although I have to think that this guy, named Lamaar, needs to get out more. Anyway, one thing leads to another and Lamaar offers to cut my hair for free (a $125 value, he tells me) in exchange for me telling my friends about him. Have you seen my friends? I remember thinking. But I am in need of a haircut and don't trust the Russian women on 22nd to do anything except a buzzcut. So I suggest to Lamaar that I am down with having my hair cut, and will tell every single one of my friends who are otherwise inclined to drop a buck and a quarter on a snip to check out his work.
A friend then later tells me that I have actually arrived at celebrity-hood when "people are giving you shit for free."
Except that when I arrive at Lamaar's salon at the appointed time, the receptionist tells me he no longer works there. She also tells me she doesn't know where he went or how to reach him. This is, of course, a lie. But I forgive her immediately, for it's the kind of lie the telling of which is thrust upon us. I don't want her losing her job on behalf of me, Lamaar and my hair. So I step away to the Peter McManus cafe for some considered reflection.
These are times that try men's souls is about all I can come up with.
To which I add: No shit. You don't know the half.
Moments ago, I pulled the scissors out of my dop kit and gave myself a haircut. More of a trim, really. But I want to look nice for the opening of my show.
I was introduced recently to a stranger who, as it later turned out, happened to be a hairdresser. Is that the word? My friend said my name and the hairdresser says something to the effect of: "The painter?"
This is amusing on several levels, although I have to think that this guy, named Lamaar, needs to get out more. Anyway, one thing leads to another and Lamaar offers to cut my hair for free (a $125 value, he tells me) in exchange for me telling my friends about him. Have you seen my friends? I remember thinking. But I am in need of a haircut and don't trust the Russian women on 22nd to do anything except a buzzcut. So I suggest to Lamaar that I am down with having my hair cut, and will tell every single one of my friends who are otherwise inclined to drop a buck and a quarter on a snip to check out his work.
A friend then later tells me that I have actually arrived at celebrity-hood when "people are giving you shit for free."
Except that when I arrive at Lamaar's salon at the appointed time, the receptionist tells me he no longer works there. She also tells me she doesn't know where he went or how to reach him. This is, of course, a lie. But I forgive her immediately, for it's the kind of lie the telling of which is thrust upon us. I don't want her losing her job on behalf of me, Lamaar and my hair. So I step away to the Peter McManus cafe for some considered reflection.
These are times that try men's souls is about all I can come up with.
To which I add: No shit. You don't know the half.
Moments ago, I pulled the scissors out of my dop kit and gave myself a haircut. More of a trim, really. But I want to look nice for the opening of my show.
posted by Geoffrey at 8:18 AM
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