So I went to see my hair stylist (that’s a weird word to me, when referring to cutting my hair — it ain’t got no style) at my appointment time. I found this sign on the door ->

Well, hell. This Hair Saloon location is within walking distance of my home, and I really like the woman who cut my hair each month. Cowgrit always approved of my cut from here.

I have a hell of a time finding a hair stylist I like. The times I’ve had to hunt for a new one, (after relocating, usually), have been filled with frustrations and bad haircuts. My hair ain’t that complicated, and I usually get it cut pretty short, so you’d think getting it right would be easy.

But no. I’ve had crooked cuts, lopsided cuts, and variations from Curly, to Moe, to Larry. So when I find someone who does a good job on my hair, (and lets me close my eyes and nap in the chair), I want to stick with her.

I say “her” because I haven’t had a male barber since I was a teenager. I’ve come to prefer a woman stylist for the purely sexist, (and maybe homophobic), reason of I prefer feminine fingers running through my hair. (My teenage-years barber was not gay. For the record. If it matters. I only add this note because my “homophobic” comment might have suggested he was.)

Anyway. So a few days pass with me wondering and fretting over how I’m going to find a new hair stylist before I start looking like a hippy. I was hesitant to go just anywhere. Random picking leads to Larry, Moe, and Curly.

But then my hair stylist calls me — she managed to get her notebook out of the previous store — and lets me know she’s set up her shingle at Super Cuts. I’ve been to a Super Cuts before. (See the fourth paragraph, above.) Plus, her location is way off out of my usual stomping grounds.

But I needed a haircut, and she is a really good stylist. She’s worth the drive, but I really liked her previous walking-distance location. I drove out to her new place.

Although I didn’t originally choose to go to the Hair Saloon for its manly setting, experiencing the non-Hair Saloon environment really makes me appreciate the difference. But, even so, I’m really glad to have my regular stylist, still. Damn, but she does a good job with my head (the process and the results).

Anything that prompts Cowgrit to say, “Hey, sexy,” when I walk in the door is a good investment. It sure beats the hell out of hearing her say, “Oh, um, my. Did you get your hair cut at the hardware store?”

Bullgrit

I don’t normally write about current news items, but I found humor in some of the news reporting yesterday about the shooting at the Holocaust Museum. (The shooting was not funny; the humor is in the reporting.) I’ve mentioned before what I think of news reporting.

A couple of articles yesterday identified the shooter as an “88-year-old Neo-Nazi.” Neo means “new.” So they’re saying this crazy guy is an old new Nazi. Is that like jumbo shrimp? I would think, at 88 years old, he’s probably an old school Nazi. And what, exactly, is the difference between a regular old Nazi and a neo Nazi?

I heard a reporter on the radio mention how several people he spoke with, who had been in the museum at the time of the incident, said they were “terrified” when they heard the gun shots. This journalist reported that people were terrified of gunshots in a museum? Ya think?

And then best of all, on ABC News, “Two other guards returned fire and wounded the alleged gunman.” Alleged gunman? They weren’t sure it was the actual gunman they were shooting at?

Sometimes getting news is less useful than not knowing.

Bullgrit

Something that totally surprised me about Johnny Mercer’s pier in Wrightsville Beach was the price for admission. That there was a price for admission. There was never such a price when I lived in the area.

This was the first time I’ve ever encountered a charge just to walk out on any pier: $1 per adult, $0.5 per child. This concept was so foreign to me, it took me several seconds to realize the guy behind the counter was serious. I had to see the sign on the door to really believe it.

As a teenager, visiting Emerald Isle beach each weekend with my family, I walked out on the Bogue Inlet pier with friends and girls a multitude of times. (Really: friends a multitude, girls a few.) The BI pier was a regular “strip” for teenagers to see and be seen at the beach. At night, the covered and sided benches along the centerline of the pier were perfect places for making out with the weekend babe. (Not that I ever did that, Mom. This is just something I heard about other people doing.)

A charge to just walk out onto the pier would have ruined that whole teen rite of passage. There was no mall at the beach, so without the free pier access, we would have been relegated to walking on the unlit beach sand or hanging around the trailer parks and campsites near our parents. One you can’t see anyone or be seen by anyone, and the other you can see and be seen by people you really don’t want to see or see you.

There was just something about the warm, night wind, the roar of the crashing waves, the smell of dead fish, and the swirl of fishing line and barbed hooks flying about that just set the mood for teen cruising. Nothing said, “Let me hold you close,” like the danger of getting hooked like bait while walking on a dim, wet, and uneven wooden pier.

Ah, the good old days when teenage hormones overrode all sense of romance. We were at the beach! Summer love was on our minds. For that, a public pier was as good as a mall back home.

Bullgrit