The bane of a blogger’s existence is that once you become one, once you descend into such a depraved state, EVERYTHING around you becomes a potential post. If you see a puppy you think, “how cute, but where is the blog angle?” Do something noteworthy puppy.
Last week I returned to my barber shop to get a much needed haircut (which by the way looks like ass today because my building seems to have no hot water for a shower). You guys seemed to like the story of my previous trip, so I thought why not post this one also. I sat down in the chair and proceeded to drift off. The buzz of clippers against my head makes me sleepy. I happened to have a very talkative barber though. After ten minutes he starts,
Barber: So man, what ethnicity are you
Me: I’m Indian actu…
Barber: Yeah that’s what I thought. I knew you were Indian. Were you born here or did you come over?
Me: I was born here. In Chicag…
Barber: Yeah I knew you were born here. You know how I knew? The Indians from India won’t let me anywhere near their head with a pair of clippers. They like big hair.
Me: Hmmm. You’re right actually.
Barber: Yeah. I don’t know what it is. At the most they will let me use clippers to clean up their neckline. That’s why I knew you were born here.
Me: Yeah, as a matter of fact when I went to India I stood out a lot because I have short hair.
I swear, every time I am at the barber shop I grow wiser. Continue reading