Lileks goes to the barber shop/hair styling salon/hair place and encounters a warm Gen Y moment:
My stylist was unpleasant. Usually I get a cheerful lass with a balloony bosom (displayed for all to see, so we can marvel at the tattoos) but this time I got a sullen minx who radiated indifference and self-regard: why is my hotness wasted here? Why is my hotness not rewarded immediately with money and wild sex with Abercrombie & Fitch models? Who the hell are you? I made the first tentative offering of small talk, which was backhanded away with a grunt. Fine; I’ll just sit here, then, recalculating the tip.
Do you use scissors? she asked.
I had no idea what she meant. I mean, I did, inasmuch as she had scissors in her hand like every other person who’s ever cut my head, and I had entered into the transaction with the assumption, however unvoiced, that scissors would be involved anew, but I didn’t quite understand, and asked her what she meant.
Do you use scissors? On your hair?
No, I don’t, I said, carefully, but the people who cut my hair do?
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