It is accomplished.
No, I didn't die for your sins, asshole. And it's the Christmas season coming up, anyway. Jesus.
What's accomplished is the much-needed haircut. Today's session was a bit different from previous ones. I usually go to a place called "Hair ID," a mi-yong shil, or beauty salon. It serves both men and women; I've got a customer card and everything. Usually, I get my haircut sometime between lunch and dinner, but today I arrived, as Jack Black might say, at the crack of noon, and there was a slightly different staff. So instead of getting the usual quick cut, then moving over to the side for my shampooing, I got the shampoo while still sitting in my chair in front of the mirror.
And a head massage.
I haven't had a head massage since the mid-90s, so I'd forgotten how relaxing such massages can be. The woman was brave, ignoring my lice and ticks and the occasional rat as they leapt screaming from my scalp to escape the shampooic onslaught.
The staff own a pug-nosed dog with huge teats that walks by and surveys the customers. I heard its nails clicking on the tile as my eyes were closed during the massage; I opened my eyes and beheld the parade of pendulous nipples as they swung and jiggled past.
Why hasn't some enterprising fellow started bottling dog's milk?
Thanks to today's cut, I can leave Korea a few pounds lighter. After maximum destruction had been achieved, a mass of black hair wreathed my seat like Satan's idea of a fairy ring. I was a huge, fat hemorrhoid sitting spot-on in the center of a hairy anus that had erupted out of the floor, a scatological hierophany. It was glorious; I wish I had a digicam to show you the mess. No doubt the staffers are still cleaning it up, even now.
And to this day, the brave but unfortunate women of Hair ID, cruelly punished by the gods, can be found futilely attempting to rid their store of the Big Hominid's mighty, tenacious hair.
Little to no blogging the rest of today, as you can imagine; I've got to finish off the rest of my to-do list.
_
Monday, November 03, 2003
shorn like sheepie
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