Yesterday I went to the Buzz Stop. It's a hair place. I was hoping, based on the name, that they also sold coffee, but alas, no.

Anyway. I went there because my hair was a disaster, and I got paid.

I was planning on growing it into a Louise Brookes style bob (shorter than I always used to keep it, but longer than it was yesterday), but it really needed something done to it in the meantime.

So my hairdresser's name was London. Yes, I know. London. He was this oddly straight dude with a strange, hip attitude. (I think. In all honesty, though, I wouldn't know hip if it smacked me in the face.) I explained the trouble. He looked at my head. A lot. He then uttered the devilish phase, "I wish you would let me give you a pixie cut," and proceded to describe a sort of updated pixie cut which would involved straightening my hair and kinda spiking it a bit.

I argued, but was weak. I told him that if I hated it he'd get no tip. He cut. He styled.

I look fabulous.