I got my hair done again today, a stunning shade of dark chocolate with impudent streaks of red and purple. My stylist, Allison, is a very nice girl who is in her early 20s and she enjoys doing goofy shit with my hair. She is never fazed when I tell her what I am thinking I would like, even though it can be chemically daunting. She works quickly, doesn't talk my ear off, and is not offended when I would rather read a magazine or a book than talk.

I also listen.

Today's loose lips in clear, loud tones for all to hear:

  • The lady with the long and very very very revoltingly-detailed story about why she needed a hysterectomy, and the surgical complications;
  • The wedding party that discussed the penis and testicle size of the groom, the birth control method of the bride and her three bridesmaids, the merits of beach intercourse, and the groom's drunken grandmother;
  • The salon owner, who snipped and sniped about the wedding party and their cheapness in tipping the assistants;
  • The Midwest transplant women, who said she was going to claim lots of flood damage for her Michigan cabin, even though she had few items there;
  • The salon owner, again, who complained bitterly that a local client of some notoriety blogged about how much she hated the salon owner's small dog being there in the shop that she urged people to go elsewhere;
  • The salon owner's younger sister, bragging about a new boyfriend when the salon owner was in the back.
Listening > talking. I'm gonna keep saying it.