Today's AfterLife column wasn't coming to me easily. I didn't have anything to write about, so I just didn't write.
Then I received an e-mail from my dad. He's a pretty funny guy. This golden e-mail detais a particularly laughable incident in which he attempts to get his hair cut. I read through it and decided I had to share it with you all. Dad's a good guy, but that doesn't mean he's not a grumpy old man.
Here is a special post, written by my father, the "Grumpy Old Man".
Tess' Note: This is an entirely real thing that happened to my dad, and as I understand it, completely ridiculous. I've sussed out my dad's writing with these handy dotted lines, and placed my editorial comments with this little precursor.
I needed a haircut. I'd been thinking about getting one for few weeks, but hadn't taken the time. I looked like one of those fifty-something guys who haven't held down a regular job in years--which is exactly what I am. I was looking sloppy-ish--which doesn't bother me any, but it irritates my children (and God knows, I wouldn't want to do that!) I needed to go to the dentist, too, but I hate the dentist and won't go unless I'm in pain.
Anyway, I was driving on Route 21, better known as Brecksville Rd., when I spotted a Great Clips in a mini-mall. I walked inside and noticed there were two stylists (is that what you call them?), both twenty-something females, both occupied. The stylist on the right side of the room looked up and said, "Welcome to Great Clips. Did you check in on line?"
[Tess' note: The following conversation takes place between my grumpy dad and a stylist at a Great Clips. This is like the McDonald's of hair places mind you. Dad's dialogue is in bold]
"Did I what?" I asked.
"Did you check in on line?"
"Was I supposed to?"
"No. But you can."
"I just want a haircut," I said.
"Okay. What's your phone number?" she asked.
"What's yours?" I asked. She chuckled nervously.
"We don't give out our phone numbers."
"But I'm supposed to give out mine to a stranger at Great Clips?" I said.
"You don't have to. What's your name?"
"You have to have my name to cut my hair?" I asked.
"Well, no. I guess I don't. I'll be with you in a few minutes."
"Terrific!" I said.
Ten minutes later, the stylist finished cutting the hair of a boy who looked to be in the fourth or fifth grade, collected thirteen dollars from his mother, walked to the back of the shop and disappeared.
I waited a few minutes, then stood and walked toward the stylist on the left.
[Tess' Note: Dad's not a very patient guy.]
"Is your colleague still here?"
"She's probably on her break," she said without looking up from her work on the head of a thirty-five year-old man.
"What is it? Two thirty? Yeah. She's on her break."
"She went on her break with me waiting fifteen minutes already?"
"Okay, well I'm apparently leaving," I said, turning toward the door.
"She'll be back in ten minutes," the stylist called to my backside.
I didn't turn around. No haircut for me. No need to explain. I'm sure I wasn't the first to walk out under those circumstances. I'm reasonably sure. Was I wrong? Who knows these days?