The weather has been so hot, in fact, that Av and I have kind of avoided going out too much for the past two days. I figure, even with sunscreen, exposing the little guy to the pounding heat can't be great for her and I wanted to avoid the inevitable packs of sweaty, snotty kids that are probably greasing up all of the playground equipment as we speak. Instead we have been enjoying the scenery of the ghetto from our back porch and taking relaxing, air conditioned rides around the North Shore stopping briefly to run around but not staying out too long to induce sun stroke.
Despite the weather, our week didn't start out the greatest way, as I was forced to make Av an emergency doctor's appointment yesterday due to a rather nasty looking rash that broke out on her stomach and back. The rash itself wasn't bothering the baby at all, and didn't appear to be anything serious, but we thought it best to check in with the doctor's office just to make sure that everything was cool. Unfortunately for me, this activity took place on my shift.
As you can imagine, knowing my irrational fear of other children, especially sick, dirty ones, that the doctor's office is not exactly my favorite place to go, but the rash wasn't getting any better so I was forced to suck it up and drag the baby to Beverly for a 2:15 appointment with an on call nurse. I am not sure why I didn't expect this, but I was surprised to find out that Mondays are apparently a very busy day for said nurse, something I realized immediately as we walked in to an absolutely packed doctor's office.
Yes, all around us were snotty, coughing, whining, yelling, crying little bastards and their irritated parents. Our 2:15 appointment- which we had arrived 15 minutes early for- quickly turned in to 2:30, meaning that I was forced to sit amongst the sick and the dirty for 30 minutes. The real issue was trying to keep Av, who was in no way sick, from getting too antsy. All she wanted to do was run around and play with other kids, but I obviously wouldn't let her given all of their conditions. One particular fit came when I wouldn't let her follow a little girl named Alliya (whose mother was literally dressed like a Laker Girl) in to the examination room when her name was called. Other battles took place when I wouldn't let her eat the end of the coat hanger in the closet and when I wouldn't let her pull the pictures off of the waiting room wall.
After we were finally, mercifully called in to the office we were placed in examination room #2. Anyone with kids knows that most pediatrician's offices have themes to each room. One is butterflies, one is sports etc... and the decorations and toys match accordingly. Well, just our luck, room #2 was race car themed. Something that I would have thought was awesome if I were 5- years-old, until I realized that the toy cars were in a locked case hanging on the wall and there were no other toys or books for Av to play with. Thus, as if the trip wasn't aggravating enough, I was forced to sit alone in a tiny room with a 1-year-old with cabin fever who is yelling at me because I won't let her play with any medical equipment. The only thing that saved them was that the on call nurse was extremely nice.
Of course, as we suspected, there was nothing wrong with Av. The rash was just a product of allergies or perhaps a seasonal change, and since it wasn't bothering her we were sent on our way, $10 poorer and with a pounding headache. The lesson here? Don't ever bring your kid to the doctor on a Monday.
Do you want me to take care of your eyebrows for you?
Lately, as the warm weather arrives, I have been trying to make it a point to re-discover my manly side. I promised myself that this summer I was going to do more active, manly things, like go to the beach and climb some rocks, maybe change my own oil and learn a little bit about my car. I am determined not to let myself become a fat, 26-year-old pansy just because I live with a bunch of women. As a result of this I have enthusiastically offered to help a friend of mine with some yard work at his new house, most specifically, chopping wood. Lumber jacking has always been one of my dream jobs. Not like big time,chain saw, cutting down the forest lumber jacking, more like back woods, chopping up fire wood lumber jacking. Hence why I was, and still am, excited to partake in the activity this summer.
Saturday, prior to heading to my friend's house to help him for the first time, I decided that I would get a hair cut in anticipation of the hot weather and ensuing physical activity. I went to my usual spot, C & K Barbers in Swampscott, but I didn't get there early enough so the waiting room was packed with dudes who had the same idea I had. On most days I would have just waited and read 3 issues of Maxim, but today I had shit to do so I hastily took a drive to Super Cuts instead.
I have had a longtime ban on Super Cuts, ever since that time about four years ago I went and an Asian woman who spoke about as much English as my cat gave me the worst hair cut in modern history, but my options at this point were limited so I decided to make a one time exception. After this experience I can only describe my feelings this way: All of the things that I hate about Super Cuts can be explained within all of the reasons that I love going to the barber shop. Lets examine the benefits...
At the barber shop the waiting room features a television as well as such male-oriented reading material as Maxim, Sports Illustrated and Car and Driver. At Super Cuts, instead of girls, sports and cars, you get People, Vougue and about 16 magazines devoted to trendy hair styles. Oh, and no TV. At the barber shop I know that I am getting my hair cut by one of two people, Corey or Kyle (although, I admittedly can never remember which one is which). There is no mystery. They have both cut my hair before, they talk to me about sports, girls and cars- and every so often our kids. If I don't want to talk that day, there is a TV in front of both chairs. At Super Cuts it is completely random. There are always 5-6 girls working, all of them with the worst hairstyles I have ever seen, and they all ask me questions about how I want my hair cut like I just spent 6 months studying at Blaine Beauty School. I am a simple guy, cut my hair short and leave me alone.
The conversation at Super Cuts sucks, too. It is completely forced and un welcomed, especially since I am pretty much always awkward and uncomfortable when I am forced to talk to girls. Seriously, it is like I am still 15. Sometimes, when I am at work and a group of girls come sit at the bar I will ask the other bartenders, if there are any, to go help them just so I don't make it weird and blow the tip. It is truly amazing at this point that I am not some sort of weird, creepy, single, comic book-loving hermit.
Finally, and in my opinion, the biggest selling point for the barber shop, is a little thing called hot foam. When the barber is done you get to enjoy a nice hot foam on the back of your neck, soothing the skin as the finishing touches are put on your neck hair with an old school 1920's hand held razor blade. At Super Cuts you get an almost always crooked line up done with a pair of clippers and are sent on your way- but not before the bimbo who cut your hair asks 37 times if you want to 'try any gel'.
Needless to say, given all of the above facts, I was not looking forward to my Super Cuts experience. All of what I said above happened. Some dumb chick with Bump-It bangs cut my hair, asking me such idiotic and irrelevant questions as 'What sort of fun do you have going on this weekend?" (I did not answer honestly with 'chopping wood,' I just said 'work') and 'So, do you go to school somewhere?' Instead of just cutting my damn hair she made me answer questions about my bangs and how I comb my hair (I don't, that is why I want you to cut it short, idiot) and I was asked at least three times if I wanted any 'product' in my hair. Perhaps the most telling questions, though, came at the end when she asked me first if I would like to 'sprinkle in some dye to cover up my salt and pepper look' and then if I wanted her to 'take care of my eyebrows for me.' No and No. Please release me from your clutches you evil hair wizard.
All in all, my haircut was fine, but my neck hurt a little from that dry clipper burn and the chicks in Maxim are much hotter than the ones in the Super Cuts haircut brochure. Next time I will be waking up extra early to beat the rush at the barber shop. That is a promise.
As for the wood chopping, it was a fantastic time. I am almost praying for a lightning storm to knock some more trees down in my friend's yard. Although, it is now Tuesday and my hands still hurt, so I am clearly not at full man capacity yet.
Saturday, prior to heading to my friend's house to help him for the first time, I decided that I would get a hair cut in anticipation of the hot weather and ensuing physical activity. I went to my usual spot, C & K Barbers in Swampscott, but I didn't get there early enough so the waiting room was packed with dudes who had the same idea I had. On most days I would have just waited and read 3 issues of Maxim, but today I had shit to do so I hastily took a drive to Super Cuts instead.
I have had a longtime ban on Super Cuts, ever since that time about four years ago I went and an Asian woman who spoke about as much English as my cat gave me the worst hair cut in modern history, but my options at this point were limited so I decided to make a one time exception. After this experience I can only describe my feelings this way: All of the things that I hate about Super Cuts can be explained within all of the reasons that I love going to the barber shop. Lets examine the benefits...
At the barber shop the waiting room features a television as well as such male-oriented reading material as Maxim, Sports Illustrated and Car and Driver. At Super Cuts, instead of girls, sports and cars, you get People, Vougue and about 16 magazines devoted to trendy hair styles. Oh, and no TV. At the barber shop I know that I am getting my hair cut by one of two people, Corey or Kyle (although, I admittedly can never remember which one is which). There is no mystery. They have both cut my hair before, they talk to me about sports, girls and cars- and every so often our kids. If I don't want to talk that day, there is a TV in front of both chairs. At Super Cuts it is completely random. There are always 5-6 girls working, all of them with the worst hairstyles I have ever seen, and they all ask me questions about how I want my hair cut like I just spent 6 months studying at Blaine Beauty School. I am a simple guy, cut my hair short and leave me alone.
The conversation at Super Cuts sucks, too. It is completely forced and un welcomed, especially since I am pretty much always awkward and uncomfortable when I am forced to talk to girls. Seriously, it is like I am still 15. Sometimes, when I am at work and a group of girls come sit at the bar I will ask the other bartenders, if there are any, to go help them just so I don't make it weird and blow the tip. It is truly amazing at this point that I am not some sort of weird, creepy, single, comic book-loving hermit.
Finally, and in my opinion, the biggest selling point for the barber shop, is a little thing called hot foam. When the barber is done you get to enjoy a nice hot foam on the back of your neck, soothing the skin as the finishing touches are put on your neck hair with an old school 1920's hand held razor blade. At Super Cuts you get an almost always crooked line up done with a pair of clippers and are sent on your way- but not before the bimbo who cut your hair asks 37 times if you want to 'try any gel'.
Needless to say, given all of the above facts, I was not looking forward to my Super Cuts experience. All of what I said above happened. Some dumb chick with Bump-It bangs cut my hair, asking me such idiotic and irrelevant questions as 'What sort of fun do you have going on this weekend?" (I did not answer honestly with 'chopping wood,' I just said 'work') and 'So, do you go to school somewhere?' Instead of just cutting my damn hair she made me answer questions about my bangs and how I comb my hair (I don't, that is why I want you to cut it short, idiot) and I was asked at least three times if I wanted any 'product' in my hair. Perhaps the most telling questions, though, came at the end when she asked me first if I would like to 'sprinkle in some dye to cover up my salt and pepper look' and then if I wanted her to 'take care of my eyebrows for me.' No and No. Please release me from your clutches you evil hair wizard.
All in all, my haircut was fine, but my neck hurt a little from that dry clipper burn and the chicks in Maxim are much hotter than the ones in the Super Cuts haircut brochure. Next time I will be waking up extra early to beat the rush at the barber shop. That is a promise.
As for the wood chopping, it was a fantastic time. I am almost praying for a lightning storm to knock some more trees down in my friend's yard. Although, it is now Tuesday and my hands still hurt, so I am clearly not at full man capacity yet.
Because they are awesome
I am officially on a crusade. Here is your Black Keys kick ass song of the day (with a rather humorous video that I hope will not distract you from the awesomeness of the rock and roll). Love it, or else.
No comments:
Post a Comment