Hair Cuts and Crap

Today was the day of the semi-annual hair cut. Even though I am a huge fan of the clippers and barbicide, I just can't handle the small talk. I need to take some course on how to talk about dumb stuff with people you don't like, because I can't engage anyone in small talk. I'm liable to get stabbed in the eye with car keys whenever I try to carry on one of those conversations. Is there a place where the hair cutters are mute (obviously deaf mutes wouldn't work)? Or maybe where they pipe in a crapload of white noise? Or where all the hair cutters are so terrorized by their husbands, that they're afraid to speak to males? Whatever the case, let's look into it.

As a matter of fact, if I were to be detained and interrogated by some shadowy group (think the YWCA), small talk could probably do me in. I could stand them yelling at me or tickling me until I weep; stuff like that would never get me to give up the goods on my comrades. However, if some guy were to sit next to me and say, "Are we having a heat wave or what?", I would sing like a canary. It'd be all, "The bombs are in the tortilla warehouse, please make him talk abuot something relevant!"

So Pro Cuts, if you're wondering why I returned that monogramed poncho you sent me, here you go.