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Guilty Pleasure...

Tuesday Apr 27, 2004

Often times when you are filling out a profile for something like Evite, or you get one of those rediculous emails from a distant acquaintance detailing every little nuance of their world that you don't give a rat's ass about every reading because you barely even know the smuck...sorry....anyway when you're filling these things out one question is always something like, "What is your guilty pleasure?" Though this could probably be taken in several ways like, "Express your continuous criminal actions here such as Cleptomania or Beastiality," the question has taken on more of an air of embarassement. Basically it is asking you, what do you not want people to know that you're into. Well why the hell would you share that information? Its secret! Its embarrasing!

Anyway today I realized I have a guilty pleasure...or do I? Well anyway, whenever the Jew-fro gets so unmanageable that I start to look like Krusty the Clown or a member of the Pistons I head over to my local Supercuts. Yes Supercuts. (Marla, my old hairdresser. If you're reading this I'm sorry I let you down. Its not you, its me). Now, in the past my Supercuts experiences have been quite different than those here in San Francisco. Mainly because the experiences I've had out West would most likely not take place in my Middle American youth. Here in San Francisco you walk in and you realize right off the bat a very scary thing; There will be no clear communication between yourself and your "hairdresser." This is for one reason and one reason only. The fine managers of Supercuts refuse to hire anyone fluent in English and/or Spanish. Now in the Midwest occassionally you would find yourself with a hairdresser well versed in the Spanish tongue. No problem, basic highschool French can translate into a semi-clear dialogue between yourself and the strange individual wielding the cutting impliments. But in SF, unless you know Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, Japanese, and/or Tagalog, you're screwed.

I sit down and she says. "Short?" I reply, "Well I certainly don't want it longer." Silence fills the room. "Short?" I, realizing the joke has fallen upon deaf to English ears respond, "Yes, more so on the sides and back than on the top." And while saying all this I gesture to the corresponding parts of my hair just to clarify the international conference we have at hand. To which she responds, "Good, I make short for you."

"Good, I make short for you." Dear Lord....I have no idea if she has heard what I said. For all I know the next move is Full Metal Jacket opening credits. Goodbye Jew-Fro, goodbye everything. Next stop Michael Jordan-do. So I close my eyes and pray that she at least has the decency to make me look as good as she can instead of returning me to the hair levels of late July, 1980. And it is in this moment I drift on in my thoughts and find myself thinking of Guilty Pleasures. Is Supercuts my guilty pleasure?

A resounding, HELL NO, echoes through my mind, as I stay perfectly still feeling the tips of sizzors coming dangerously close to Van Gohing me up. Then what is it that brings me back. My Jewish need to be frugal? Not really as the Supercuts of SF is charging close to $15 and I could cut my hair for free or go to a real stylist for just about twice that. No, its not the money. And then it hits me. Why I keep coming back. My true guilty pleasure. More of a guilty pleasure than Matchbox 20, Barenaked Ladies, Musical Theatre, women's clothing (ooops)...I love when they sign my frequent haircutters card. In fact today's haircut put me over the top. Next time I start using the pick to style my hair I won't have to worry about digging up enough dimes to chop the fro, I'm supercutting for free!

Pray for me.