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I’m glad to hear of your rallye successes. I can only imagine the scene: you, clad in white boatingwear, leading S, Z, and G on the adventure of their humble, wide-eyed lives; bystanders oohing and ahhing, their jaws rendered permanently agape. Speaking of which, I heard G met you in Hoboken thereby totally discrediting my pushback to the idea and pretty much lowering me to the status of baby. The truth hurts, alas.
So anyway, as part of my Ben As Adult Programme (BAAP), I decided to pay more than ten dollars for a haircut. I don’t think I’ve ever been satisfied with a haircut, as you know from a previous letter, and shelling out the dough for an establishment referring to itself as a salon or hair-empowerment-center seemed like the natural step in achieving some sort of fulfillment in that department. Well, you ask, did the money translate into quality? My answer is a definitive and strongly stated: I guess. First and definitely foremost, the shampooing wasn’t your average spit in my hair and rinse it out with a whisk, but a complete mind, body, and soul experience. Lisa, or Texas as she’s called in origin-conscious Brooklyn, spent the better part of a quarter-hour exploring my scalp, fusing it with brightly scented lather, massaging away the bad memories of childhood. Unfortunately I’m basically as ticklish as humanly possible (read: I have intimacy issues) and spent the whole encounter biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, which I can assure you is a hurtful reaction to pleasure related human contact.
In the end the cut turned out pretty regular and took probably three times as long to accomplish, sure Texas and I are closer than ever, but was it worth it? I don’t know, whatever. There’s a part of me, a part of each of us, that convinces the other parts of ourselves that a thing is better simply because it costs more. And you know what, dear friend, that’s the part of me I cherish most, the part that keeps me naively happy.