After Hours

Les Aristos. Pour toi

Lordy, what a day. You know, this may sound really strange, but I have a fear of haircuts. This all stems from a really bad time a few years ago when I was having a few troubles with all-day-long panic attacks. If I'd had any sense, I would have just let my hair grow long and not worried about it, but that wasn't my bag, man. So I endured haircuts, feeling like my head would explode the whole time. If that had actually happened, golly, that would have been a surprise for the poor barber. Luckily, the explosion never occurred. Today, already nervous for my impending 16-hour flight, I visited Rudy's for a decisive trim. I admit that I felt a little like I did several years ago, but fortunately, I was able to sit still AND make conversation with my barberess. She knew what a brush cut was. It's one notch up from a buzz cut. That's what I got. It will aid with the heat in Turkey. Sure, I'll still sweat. When it gets above 57 degrees, that happens. But less hair will make it a little less noticeable. And if I can survive a haircut, I should be fine with the flight, because both are equally as difficult.

It appears that I'm ready to go. My car is re-garaged, my insurance is suspended, my Internet is annulled but, surprisingly, I'm taking my phone with me. I'm only doing this to a) call my mom to wish her a happy Mother's Day, and b) call my cousin in case he should totally drop the ball again with his poor American relation (that's me). So anyway, here's a band from 1966 singing a song in French. Love it.