Getting a haircut is a profoundly humbling experience these days.
It's debasing just to enter the Hair Cuttery, but the real anguish sets in when I'm stationed in front of the mirror, at which point I'm forced to confront the horror: the shrublike hair (before and after the coiffure); the slack, pallid visage marked by odd red patches like those of a career alcoholic; the cascades of white clippings. I keep my eyes shut through as much of the ordeal as possible.
Today, when the smock was ripped off like a band-aid - or a scab - a special treat: the faint spot where I'd drooled a bit of vitamin pill this morning, centered perfectly between my fat-girl titties like a Victorian necklace.
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