Homophobia and the rent-a-car mafia

A couple of weeks ago I had a hair-wave. It was meant to be a brain-wave, but it couldn't penetrate the lush growth of hair on my head that had been unchecked for almost half a year. The wave was an exceptionally powerful one, undoing the efforts of a recently purchased tube of hard hold gel. And I wasn't brave enough to mend the damage the wave(or rather the cruel Albany wind) had done by hand, for I was convinced that 5 months without a haircut was enough for hair to grow a life of its own. Considering that I have been a carnivore all my life, the chances of my hair being vegetarian were minimal which meant I ran the risk of being de-fingered if I got my hand within a foot of my hair.

Notes to self
1 - Years of watching under-sea predators on National Geographic has rendered me phobic of anything that's rooted at the bottom and has a body that sways (including my hair).
2 - I might try feeding grilled honey-salmon to my hair next time I visit a fish place. (Replace the honey with Garnier please).
3 - I would have still ventured my hands into my hair if I had 6 fingers. Atleast there'd be a chance of coming back normal with 5 digits.

Since the wave couldn't reach my brain and simply tangled my hair, I concluded it was a sign to have a haircut(As if the dandruff blizzard on my shoulders everyday and the fact that I was using breakfast time to gel my hair instead wasn't). Since I hadn't had a haircut in months I thought it justifiable to book an appointment at a relatively expensive hairdo place with the works. You know - a svelte dame giving you a hair-wash, talking to you about how you'd like you hair done and having an interesting conversation while she's at it.

Note to self
3 - The haircut isn't as important as the conversation. The conversation is important only if it's with a dame. A hot one. Preferably a brunette. With classy earrings and no heels. I don't want her tripping on the heels and cutting my ears instead.

At the designated time I reached the hair studio to be greeted by a hot blonde receptionist sucking on a candy. She asked me to be seated and that the hair stylist would be with me in a few minutes. Squinting my eyes due to light reflected by the candy resting between her lips, I staggered to the nearest chair.

Note to self
4 - Contemplate opening a candy store on a service area on I-87.

Waiting for the stylist, I thought back on the day I booked the appointment. I had a choice of a number of stylists - Pam, Jenna, Melissa, Joan, Janet etc etc. Since recognizing a brunette by her name is not a gift that I am endowed with, I chose the option of being attended by the first available stylist. What are the odds of having the only male stylist assigned to you when the remaining 12 are females - negligible.

Note to self (and reader)
5 - You might have probably guessed - my hormones were really active that day.

Out came the stylist in a few mintutes - wearing a pair of blue jeans, a black tee, glasses and a tattoo on the left arm. A blonde. A blonde man. A feminine blonde man.

Note to self
6 - What are the odds of having the only mail stylist assigned to you when the remaining 12 are females?

F***! I realized that I had paid a lot of money for this and I would have to go through with this. The stylist took me over to the wash basins to give me a hair-wash. I shut my eyes and concentrated all my thoughts and hormones on the candy-sucking receptionist. I slipped into a mini-fantasy of us alone in the hair-studio and her sucking away to glory on the candy. All of a sudden my stylist comes into the frame and she takes out the candy and puts in my stylists mouth and as a barter puts on his glasses. Damn! Fantasy mein bhi aa gaya sala! In a fraction of a second, I went from hormonal to hormournal.

Note to self
7 - Candy store plan shelved. Fake ray-ban glasses shop outside Bandra station is the way to go!
8 - I've always had something for girls with glasses. So the fantasy was not that bad after all.

As I jumped out of the fantasy, the hair-wash was complete. If only the rest of my time there passes as quickly, I thought to myself.

As we went through the haircut, the stylist kept telling me how he was glad he had a lot of hair to play with as it would let him give me suitable professional look I could take to the office. Play with! Play with!! (I'm not here for you to play with me! I'm here for a haircut! I screamed in my head). As he went on with the haircut, I noticed how he was making an honest attempt to accumulate the fallen hair at one spot under the side-drawer, which was very disconcerting for me. If ever I wanted to take my hair back from the hairdressers, it was then. What if he sends my hair to his pals in the forensics and has my DNA tagged and marks me for attacks by his kind? And why was he not offering any solution for my dandruff? Any hairdresser worth his salt will tell you ways to stop the white blizzard coming out of your head! Something was wrong, very wrong indeed.

Notes to self
9 - Need to fix another hairdo appointment to obliterate the memories of this one.
10 - The haircut wasn't that bad though. The stylist did a good job.

The haircut complete, I bid my adieu to the candy girl (replacing the candy with glasses in my mind as I spoke with her. Candies and anything to do with them completely out of any of my life's plans now).

A week later I was still thinking about what had happened to my fallen hair. Were they sent out to be made as wigs? Were they woven into sweaters as a last ditch attempt by naturalists to save sheep? Were they being used by a supermodel to spread rouge on her cheeks? I thought I would never know.
Then, a discovery! My colleagues and I rented a Ford Taurus 2010 to drive to NYC over the weekend. It hadn't been snowing for the past few days and yet the snow brush lying inside showed traces of snow on it. Then BANG! A flash! The white snow was not snow, it was something else. By relation, it followed that the bristles on the brush were not bristles. As I reached my hand out to touch the brush I felt the connection that Jake felt with the flying predator when he tamed it in Avatar. The black brush was my hair! The snow was my dandruff! So here's how I read this puzzle - The stylist was putting on an act to distract my thoughts so he could cut out as much hair as possible to give to the rent-a-car mafia so they could use my hair to make snow brushes. In hindsight it makes good business sense - They don't have to process the hair since it's already been pre-washed and they don't need to shampoo it again coz shampooing hair makes its softer. And the harder the bristles, the more effectivethey are in clearing out the snow. Elementary my dear Watson!

Great going

100 pound bench press
Minus the 40 pound bar.

Feels good to be immodest ;)

Drawing Board

Making my work-out plan

12:06 am

8:00 pm - 3 idiots
10:30 pm - 30 mile drive
11:45 pm - Veggies + paratha + juice
12:06 am - This entry