Gotta make an appointment

"Do you like my hair better long or short? And you can't say 'both' and you have to have one answer, either 'long' or 'short."

"Uh ... I don't know," he said. He probably was mentally checking his life insurance, just in case he gives the wrong answer when he finally got around to it.

"Dave."

"OK. It ... looks ... nice ... uh, short ..?" Like a first-grader, reading aloud for the first time: "And then? Jack ran up the hill? And he ... fell?"

Yeah, so what, of course that was the answer I was going for, because I'd prefaced it with "Maybe I should get my hair cut." But my hair is long now. Oh, poor, trapped Dave.

I toyed with the idea of getting it cut this weekend at one of the no-appointments, pay-extra-for-the-blowdrying places. See, I haven't paid more than $15 for a haircut in years, primarily because I'm broke. But now, because it'd be an actual style, I was considering a real, actual salon. But the price ... Ugh.

Then, last night, I had a thought that made me stop and do that disgusted "hugggh!" sound. And clouds opened up and light bulbs went off over my new revelation.

My dog? Mr. Big - that mutt? His hair gets cut every six to eight weeks at $36 per visit. I'm one of those people. Next thing you know, his sweaters will start looking better than mine, and he'll be less like a dog and more like those Laguna Beach kids. "Dahling, could you fetch me that tennis ball? I don't want to get my fuuuur ruffled."

Gawd.