So I managed to get one day off from work last week, and decided to use this precious time to get a much-needed haircut. Off I trudged to the local hairstylist (whatever happened to the term “barber”?), where I carefully printed my name on the sign-in sheet, grabbed a chair and the latest edition of Redbook (where did all of the Sports Illustrated go?), and settled in for what I was hoping was going to be a short wait.
Little did I know that the joker in front of me was one of those people who don’t know when to shut up.
His loud, grating voice permeated every nook and cranny of the establishment as he talked about his kids, his dogs, and how brittle his hair was during the months of April and October. His diatribe about the evils of colon cancer and the plague of rats that infested his mother’s attic ceaselessly continued as he had his hair shampooed. Never stopping to take a breather, his non sequitur-riddled dialogue made a sharp right at foot odor, negotiated a roundabout with famous political assassination attempts, took a detour on stuffed mushrooms and mint jelly, before finally diving into the deep end with the evils of modern cinema.
The man would Not. Stop. Talking.
And with every riveting change in topic, he’d ask the hairstylist to, “look at me. This is something most people aren’t aware of.” My God, man. Can’t you see the distinct disinterest the hairstylist has in your inane ramblings? How difficult is it to interpret her detached “hems” and “haws” as anything other than “will you shut the hell up, already”?
Finally, the last scissor cut was made, the last brush of the comb was waved, and the obligatory dab of gel was applied. Mr. Talker slowly ambled up to the counter to pay, never breaking his conversational stride as he asked the stylist about this hair product and that that hair product, and should I use this gel or that mouse, and should I lather under hot water before applying, and did we know that kids are having spastic epileptic fits when they play these modern video games because they’re trying so hard to win, and my son is taking karate but he has ADD, and blah, blah, blah…deftly keeping his credit card just out of the reach of the hairstylist in a blatant attempt to extend his one-sided conversation for as long as humanly possible.
All the while I patiently waited, contemplating whether or not to intervene. Luckily, Mr. Gasbag finally relequished his credit card, boldly stated for all to hear that he was leaving a five dollar tip (ohhh, big spender), and that he would return next month. As he confidently strode past me (the waft of air that trailed him stank of cheese and wood chips) out the door I could see the poor hairstylist roll her eyes and let go a pent up sigh of relief, obviously none too thrilled at the prospect of seeing this particular customer again any time soon.
I thought people like this existed only in south Florida retirement communities and bad 80′s teen television comedies. What the hell is wrong with some people? What disease could you possibly have that could make you such a social misfit?
Some People Are Jerks
Some People Are Jerks
