Splitting Hairs, Splitting Pants

It is very important that I find a new place to get my hair cut. I must find a decent barber and I need to find one soon. I have been going to a fairly popular chain since I took my current job, and most of the people who cut hair there are pretty good. However there is one lady there who the regulars tend to avoid, yet one who I continue to give chances to regardless of how many times she scalps me. The haircut I request is a fairly standard one. A number 2 clip on the sides and back, and take enough off of the top to shorten it, but leave enough so I can flip the front. For some reason this lady cannot get the front right. She clips away until I am left looking not unlike the “Private Pyle” character from Full Metal Jacket. I am too heavy to have hair this short, and it takes a couple weeks for me to recover. I am going back to my old philosophy – you must be at least partially Italian, or very hot, to cut my hair. I am ugly enough without needing any extra help.

My visit to the cardiologist yesterday afternoon went well on the news front, but was fraught with some near-terminal embarrassment. I was able to overcome the shame of sitting in the exam room for an extended period of time with my shirt off (the Vin-Man’s torso is not easy on the eyes, as I have been unable to see my abs since 1993…). Normally, belly overhang or no, nurses tend to be very nice to me – I try to be friendly and engaging with people that might have to stick me with needles. The nurse yesterday was very sweet when she led me to the exam room, and in the initial stages of taking my blood pressure. Then, she got kind of nervous and short with me. I wasn’t sure what happened, but I was certain at the time that it had to do with the trauma of being up close and personal with male stretch marks and a bottonless pit "innie". It wasn’t until she finished administering my EKG that I looked down to find that I had a complete split in the right front crotchal region of my pants. Nice. No way to hide it either. I felt like a total hobo. I tried to play it off to the doctor, but there was no way to undo the out-of-control fat guy first impression at this doctor’s office.

The news I got was fairly encouraging. My blood pressure is kind of high, but the doc said that would correct itself with more exercise. He said he did not feel that I had any cardiac issues to be overly concerned about, but that we would do an echo stress test in early February just to be sure. He also suggested that I look into some better pants. In my defense, the pants started to fray before Christmas. They had a weird hem to them that lent itself to the split. I have other colors of the same style and they fit fine. I got another pair of black khakis for my birthday, and the frayed ones were to be fixed – and were set aside. Problem is, on a bleary-eyed Monday morning, I was not paying close enough attention to what I was putting on. As I discovered the source of the nurse’s unease, my mind started racing back to the meetings I sat in on yesterday, one of which was with the marketing team hired by our company to strengthen our brand in the industry. None of the guys in the office noticed the pants, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the marketing people didn’t either.

[Currently Listening: Oaktown 357 – “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah”]