I get my hair cut at the Astor Place barbershop. It’s a huge, underground room, with maybe sixty or seventy barbers standing around. They specialize in the fourteen-dollar, six-minute hair cut. I don’t know why I go there. I always leave looking like I’ve just had an unfortunate encounter with a buzzsaw.
Anyway, today I went in for a haircut and my barber’s name was Al. Al was a big guy, bald, with a mustache. On the knuckles of one hand he had a tattoo that said, “W-H-A-M”; and on the other, “P-O-W-!”. But when I asked him if he was a fan of the old Batman TV show, he just gave me a blank stare and grunted.
Needless to say, I tipped him well.
Update (2/12/2009, 8:06):
My roommate Julia just walked in, and we had the following conversation:
JULIA: Oh, did you get a haircut?
JULIA: Oh! It looks … shorter.