April 25, 2012

Everyone Needs A Good RASH

One of the many things that had to be rescheduled from last week was my monthly haircut, so yesterday I went in for my updated appointment.  I'm still not completely pleased about the guy cutting my hair (we'll call him "Jimmy"), however.  He's the same guy who gave me the mini-mullet originally, and still sort of does, though he's getting slightly (marginally) better about it.  And he does do a good job with my color--he keeps the grey covered while making it still look mostly like my natural color.  The sad part is that good ole' Jimmy is still a significant improvement over anyone else who has done my hair here in Georgia.  Besides, I really like the guy.  We have a good time chatting. I just want him to start listening to what I actually tell him about my hair.  Every month it seems like it's something.  The first couple of months I ended up coming back and making him trim my bangs shorter.  Last time he remembered I liked them "shorter" and so whacked the crap out of them, then asked "Is that better?"  Like I'm gonna say "No, you idiot, now glue my hair back on!"

This time I was a little better prepared in advance, and didn't immediately ("immediately" being the operative word) get caught up in being silly with him.  I asked Jimmy about the shampoos the salon used because I prefer not to come home and spend the next three days sneezing at my own hair.  That part he got, and found a shampoo with less fragrance or cologne or whatever gets put in and used it on me; this happy product allowed me the continued ability to breath, of which I am a big fan.  Next I told Jimmy that while I liked my bangs shorter than average (read "not in my eyes"), I still preferred them not to touch my hairline and asked if we could please split the difference between the bangs of Justin Bieber and those of a Roman senator.  After Jimmy finished snorting and giggling (hey--at least he doesn't get offended like most people would--he's starting to "get" me), he agreed to try to do better, which he did.  Lastly, I told him that I would like him to keep the hair over my ears a little longer so it was less mullet-y and could blend in more to the rest (also so I could subversively have my old stylist cut it more easily next month while I'm in town for a graduation).  I'm not sure what exactly Jimmy did, but it wasn't that.  Maybe it was the way he combed it, but afterwards, I almost looked like I had Vulcan hair, with the layers splitting front and back around my ears.  Whatever, dude.  Why is this one request so difficult to fathom??  Maybe I should just tell him to stop making me look like freakin' Carol Brady, circa the later years.

Anyway, details aside, we started chatting as we always do, covering any number of interesting and/or disturbing topics.  I figure it's his own fault for asking me what's new or what's interesting.  That should teach him.  And yet, it never does.  You'd think he'd have learned better by now.  Yesterday we somehow got onto the topic of cancer, which led specifically to skin cancer from overexposure to the sun and my tendency to sunburn just by looking at microwaves, much less from being outside.  This then led to a discussion of my freckles and ultimately Rule 34, which I had to explain to Jimmy because he'd never heard of it.   Next thing I know, we're discussing freckle fetishes and what other sorts of bizarre things might be contained on the internet, which was of course my point entirely when mentioning Rule 34 in the first place.  And I just know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he ran straight to his smart phone at the first available opportunity to Google both "rule 34" and "freckle fetishes."

While talking about this and sun exposure I told Jimmy how I could always tell when it was spring because my faded freckles would instantly darken with the first kiss of the sun's warm rays as though they had magically appeared out of nowhere.  During this discussion, I happened to tell Jimmy that "at least they aren't everywhere; if I ever went topless in the Mediterranean, I'd be screwed."  Poor Jimmy nearly wet himself.  He went into paroxysms of laughter so debilitating that he had to stop cutting my hair and go hide around the corner in an employees-only area because of the tears streaming down his face.  Obviously I realized that he'd taken something I said as funny, but it took me a second to register exactly what that something was.  In my head, I was thinking that if my freckles started popping up the second they were exposed to sun, my going topless would no doubt cause millions of little brown dots to suddenly spring up in awkward places all over my pasty white torso.  But that's not what Jimmy heard.  What Jimmy heard was "If I go topless, I'll get screwed."  Needless to say, his first reaction was more along the lines of "Well, I'd imagine you would..."   Alrighty, then.

Once Jimmy'd gotten himself back under control, he came back to finish my hair cut/Carol Brady extravaganza, during which I continued to rag him about wanting to look at internet porn all afternoon after our unfortunate misunderstanding and Rule 34.  It's starting to seem like every time I have an appointment with Jimmy, half of it is spent with him doubled over snorting laughter or saying "Wowzers" (which just gives me an overwhelming desire to start looking behind him for Shaggy or Velma).  I don't know if Jimmy looks forward to my little visits or if he fears them; either way, clearly he never knows what's gonna come out of my mouth next.  Some people might call that not having a filter; in fact one acquaintance did exactly that.  I disagree, however, considering I nobly refrained from calling said acquaintance a jumped-up arrogant little jerkwad.  Just because I don't always choose to use a filter doesn't mean I don't have one.  Besides, I prefer to think of my comments as "inventive" rather than "unfiltered."  I just hope that Jimmy starts packing Poise pads before I come if he's going to be this susceptible to my weirdness.

Really, though, I suppose I should thank him, because he has helped me to understand why everyone seems to think I'm so much funnier than I think I am.  Sure, I can be witty on occasion, but the reality is not so much that I'm funny as that I apparently have an enormous tendency to utter the most disconnected or unexpected of observations (just call me Lieutenant Left Field), thereby catching people completely off-guard whether via my complete and utter randomosity or because of statements that can be unintentionally interpreted in multiple ways.  You know, like how going topless might get me screwed.  Well, I suppose it might.  More likely it would get me arrested or rolled back into the nearest body of water.

So, in honor of Jimmy's extreme reaction yesterday, I have decided to christen my frequently weird colorful, creative, unique, and visionary observations as Random Acts of Senseless Humor, or RASH for short.  Everyone should experience a RASH at some point in life.  They'll be contagious, like Pringles--once you have one RASH, you'll want other RASHes as well.  Before you know it, you'll be covered in RASHes.  People will treat them cautiously at first, but eventually they'll give up and want to expose everyone else to RASHes, too.  It will be an epidemic of RASHes!  They'll be my legacy, perhaps even my epitaph:  "Ginger LaRue--Leaving RASHes Behind Since 1965."

It could happen.


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