Yesterday I walked into town and got a haircut. My hair was pretty fucken long and I usually hate hairdressers, or stylists or whatever they like to be called. I seriously did need a haircut, though. On the way into town I kept thinking I was gunna get hit by a car because hair was blocking my peripheral vision. And I didn't see the step on the way into hairdresser's with my fringe in my face. I stumbled, landed in the middle of the waiting room, looked up and asked 'how long do I have to wait for a haircut?'
They cut it all off for me. I look like in my photo again. At first she didn't want to, it was a lot of hair afterall and you can't put it back on.
We talked some, which is why I usually hate hairdressers. They have to be friendly to you, and usually I can't stand that, but I talked anyway because she seemed nice enough. It struck me that the Crossing Over dude was probably a hair professional before he became an international conman of mystery. Hairdressers are modern fortunetellers, asking vague questions about thier clients and gradually building up a picture of the person so they can continue conversation while they perform thier services.