Get a haircut, hippie
Saturday afternoon, and I’m taking a break by getting the ol’ butch squared away down at the neighborhood barbershop. It’s weird: Once you cut off all your hair, you just want to keep getting it shorter, and when the hair starts coming back in, you get kind of neurotic about letting it grow, lest Joe Friday and Bill Gannon mistake you for one of them hippie boys. Wouldn’t want that, now, would we?
I like this particular shop (Anthony’s, on 21st off X in Sacramento) because it’s got a vibe that synchronizes with that custom car and tangential surf culture that I was dialed into before I started smoking dope and listening to longer guitar solos, and there’s also a strong punk rock and tattoo sensibility that I’m comfortable with. Go figure. I don’t have a single tattoo on my body — not because I don’t like ’em, but because I am one indecisive bastard. Maybe I should just get a bunch of tats with fratzogs and abstract Mayflowers and other Mopariana, because if I opt for the Celtic imagery of my ancestors, I might as well shave me fookin’ head, don a Utilikilt, get about four or five earrings, and start playing didgeridoo in some shitty Celto-Aboriginal punk band. Do not want to go there.
Anyway, it’s almost time for my turn in the chair. It’s busy here today, so the wait’s a little longer than other times I’ve been in here. No prob with that, though. Just gives me a moment to tap this little update out to you, because, well, y’know, I care. Je bemte! —Jackson Griffith