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August 10th, 2006

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C. Hoey-

I really thought I wanted to move to L.A. How naïve. How easily the glamorous whirlwind swept me up in its reassuring, glory-promising arms and cradled me so gently, carrying me around on it’s chest all papoose-like while it ran very important errands and cut deals on it’s ultra slim cell phone. But since I’ve returned to Le Pomme Grande (it’s a melting pot, so that’s my excuse, okay?), life has been magical: new friends, amazing food, a resurgence of loving my own life, rashes healing. Me is East Coast born and raised, what!

To celebrate and make this feeling something concrete I got a haircut. I’ve been in NYC since the beginning of aught-six and have yet to find a reliable barbershop. I did a little google work in the morn and came up with this place. It was worth the experience no matter how bad I look. I walk in and there’s sweaty, thickly-built foreign types cutting hair as far as the eye can see. I’m immediately handed over to Timmy: the man who holds my future with the ladies in his pudgy, hairy-knuckled hands. Oh yeah, and he smells foreign… a.k.a. he’s not wearing deodorant. Timmy is Russian, has a waning accent, and apparently cutting hair is his day-job. Timmy is a singer! My words to him are something like, “I want to go short, ‘cause what’s one to do with this thick, fro-ish Jew hair? But like, not too clean cut, that’s SO not me. I’m talking no sharp lines, nothing too GQ, ya know…? Then I look up and see those pictures of sample haircuts up around his mirror and I’m thinking they’re from maybe like ’87. Crazy-fly flattops and I think like some of those cuts where you actually shave images and symbols into your head. So I add, “…and for God’s sake, NO FADES!? I must have pissed him off when I started laughing at the whole situation while he was trimming my beard. It was just something I had never experienced, and it’s fairly weird to have some butch dude you’ve never met shaving the underside of your neck while you stick your chin in the air like a purring kitten. He basically gave me the cleanest-cut I’ve ever had. He took a straight razor to my neck! I mean, straight razors have an ole-timey appeal, and it wouldn’t have been so bad except for two things: one, the twenty-four hours of burning that follows; and two, while he was shaving my impressive neck tufts I espied a ball of blood speckled tissues in his trash can, implying a lack of blade control on his part, leaving me slightly nervous.

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So I left unsure of what this cut would portend for my luck with the ladies, and I’m all trying to decide how I can salvage it. I came up with three options: a) get some pomade and do it up Marty McFly style, like super conservative 50’s era b) go with some lines or lightning bolts shaved in the side c) purposely give myself a cowlick to push the boyish charm of the cut to its logical conclusion. I chose c.

In other news, I found my soulmate. I mean… I haven’t met her yet, but I know where she lives. See related photo. Also, my life changed yesterday when I read a tampon box and corresponding information pamphlet. More to come on that later.

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Kisses,
Ben

P.S. I sat down to pee yesterday, so that’s sort of stressing me out.

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