I’m hoping for a little trim…

I met a guy named Chuck at my local cigar hangout recently.

Chuck liked my hair.

Said he wanted to cut it.

Said he had a hair place.

He didn’t look anything like Buffalo Bill,  so I would’ve helped him pushing that couch into his van, but hello?  Lit cigar.  Busy.

Before he went looking for someone else to help him with his couch and we parted ways with a slightly limp-wristed handshake, he mentioned with a bit of disdain that “we don’t do ‘ten bucks and tits’ at my hair place.”   (Insert Scooby Doo “Ruh?”  noise here.)

You need to know – it’s only in the last 7 months that I’ve let my hair grow out, so I’m having to reintroduce myself to the world of hair cutting and hair products.  I’d totally forgotten about the television ads for the “dude parlors” with their big screen TVs, free chips and drinks, and of course, tits.  Thanks for reminding me, Chuck.

I mean, it’s only hair, right? And it’s ten bucks.   If I get a terrible cut from a buxom blond, I can always buzz it and grow new.  Hair’s cool that way.  Plus, it’s cheaper than a cover charge to a strip club, and I’d get about the same amount of body contact.  I think.  I’ve only ever been to a strip club once.   That I remember.  Sorta.  And why was my underwear ripped in two and in my pocket the next morning?  So many questions.

Where was I?   Right.  Hooters girls with scissors.

I get to my appointment and pretty much see what I expect to see:

• A dude that just paid $25 for a #1 clipper cut.
• Two other dudes sitting far apart from each other, waiting for their cuts, trying not to make eye contact with any other man.   Like it’d ruin the fantasy or something.
• Two attractive women wearing, well, if you’re sitting down? Things get a little cheeky.

But honestly?  That’s where the whole façade disintegrated.  I’m not sure what I was expecting – getting a lapper while she cut my bangs or the offer of a “motorboat special,” but once I sat in the chair, it was all business. Danielle, my “Sexy Stylist,” had the usual shit in her stall.   Picture of her kid, ubiquitous fridge-worthy kid artwork.   No grinding on the barber chair.  No arms-up twirling between working on the left sideburn and the right.  Totally NOT wood-inducing.

And I’m a chatter, but despite the pig suit I don when I write here, in real life I’m not the same person.  So none of the conversation contained “tits” or “toots.”  Just a dude, getting his hair cut.  By a chick with her boobs hangin’ out.  Talking about work, kids and gas prices.  And how they used to have bouncers here.  And the mid-day drunks that come in looking for a little trim.

And honestly?  The two heaving gorillas in the room made the conversation a little awkward, especially since I knew she had sharp objects in her hands, but Danielle made up for it by being very communicative about where she should cut, how much to cut, etc.  She actually seemed more interested in giving me a decent cut than an equally-priced Fantasticutters bowl job.

And when it was done, she had.  I passed on the after-cut massage.   (See?  So not a pig.)

The thing is, I’ve had women show more cleavage at trade shows selling diamond brick-cutting blades.  This was a good, no-nonsense cut executed by a friendly stylist who happened to have ass cheeks I could see if I looked at the correct angle.  No big whup.

Chat Roulette, revisited. (and this time? Safe For Work!)

Have you visited Chatroulette.com since Jane and I posted about it? Probably not. Chicken shits. The penises aren’t real, you know.

Anyway. In the last few weeks this talented pianist has used his improv to take the interwebz by storm.

And I guess with his hoodie, he looks a little like Ben Folds. A famous guy. News to me, but I’m old and unhip.

Anyway. Everyone thought “Merton” was Folds in disguise. He wasn’t. But it turns out that Folds has a sense of humor, and recorded an “Ode to Merton,” live, during one of his shows.

And then he did it again.

Since then, Merton’s put out his second piano improv video.

I swear all that shit just makes me wanna do the happy dance.

Last Saturday night I made a run to my local cigar shop to refill on a few of my standard smokes. While there the tabacconist offered to make a few suggestions. One of those suggestions included the newest offerings by Playboy. I know. I thought the same thing. Playboy? Cigars?

I drive a truck. I have to for my job. That truck does NOT have a sticker of a Calvin-looking character peeing on something. There are no pretend, vinyl bullet holes in the side of my truck. I do not have a Dale Earnhardt belt buckle. Or a Tony Stewart Home Depot jacket. Carrying around a cigar tube with the bunny head logo made me feel like I should be stopping off at Wal*Mart on the way home to find that bumper sticker that says that you need gas, ass or grass to ride with me.

Playboy = low brow.

At least to me. Unless of course you’re a lovely female with said logo inked on your person, in which case I’m in favor. But I’d ask for photographic proof of that tat before I give you a pass.

My personal, untattoed baggage aside, I bought the cigar and smoked it yesterday. First, I need to give a disclaimer: I don’t have the most refined taste buds on the planet. I can’t talk about “notes of nutmeg” or “a hint of cinnamon.” To me a cigar either has a mild flavor, a full flavor, or a shred-your-mouth-like-hot-embers-and-razors flavor. So my cigar reviews tend more toward the construction of the cigar. How it smokes. And so, here we go…

The store where I buy my cigars has an excellent, enormous humidor. Better selection than many big city cigar stores. So when I buy a cigar there, the consistency is usually excellent; not soft and mushy, not a crispy, hard brick. But this Playboy smoke was more brickish than it was soft and tender.

There’s also a fine line between a cigar being wrapped too tightly and too loose. Too loose and it can burn quickly up one side and significantly shorten the time you can enjoy the cigar without burning your fingers. Wrapped too tight and phrases like “sucking the chrome off a bumper” come to mind when thinking of the effort needed for the smoke.

You know how sometimes you buy a chocolate shake and you have to pull so hard on the straw that the insides of your cheeks touch each other? That’s what I got with this cigar. Smoking should be a relaxing event. It shouldn’t feel like I’m trying out for the fluffer job in the next Peter North flic.

And the cigar snuffed itself out on numerous occasions, requiring multiple re-lights.

So all in all, not a very good smoke. Flavor was decent, as the tobacconist promised, but for the money you could get two cigars from Oliva and be happier with the experience.