from the archive: age 14 writings


Presented without revision or editorial alteration.

8:27 PM

Well, today, I had planned to do stuff. In my mind, I thought I would get up, deliver my papers, make pancakes, get a haircut, and then go to the movies. It didn't quite work. First, our sink was clogged because some idiot (my mom [sorry Mom {like you'll read this}]) put pork fat down the garbage disposal. I really thought that was a constructive use of $56. Nobody could go to the movies, and my parents went shopping.

So I went to a sort of picnic lunch with Adrienne, Sarah, and Kelly. All we really did was eat lousy Safeway sandwiches, cut on other members of the swim team (esp. Tom) and bury a yellow jacket. I trapped it in a Snapple bottle, so we buried the whole container. Suffocate, damn insect. After I spent a fascinating half-hour of sweating like a pig and mowing the front lawn, my parents finally returned. My dad took me to get a haircut.

Being the purveyors of high fashion that we are, we backed up the Toyota and headed for...Pro-Cuts! I ended up being assigned to a hairdresser named Tery. She had an advantage over most Pro Cuts personnel in that she had decent body odor, didn't look like a prostitute, and had a refreshing absence of open sores on her armpits and face. Tery sat me down in my comfortable plastic chair and tied a tiny toilet paper-ish thing around my neck. The Procutters think that a little piece of pair (sic) will keep the little hairs from falling down your shirt. I guess that explains why they're working at Procuts.

Anyway, she raised the chair and asked me what kind of haircut I wanted. Since I am not among the privileged few fluent in Hairsalonese, I wasn't sure how to describe it. I tried kind of tracing my ideal cut, and Tery said, "Oh, you mean the step." Yeah. Got it. So she worked on my "step cut." First I was asked what number I wanted.

"Um, one haircut?" I asked-said.
"No, the razor size," she clarified.
"I don't understand."
"One, two, three, four, or five?"
"And five would be...?"
"Look, how long do you want your hair?"
"Um, short."
"Not bald?"
"Then you want number 2," she said, like a preschool teacher explaining why paste is not for nice little boys to eat.

So, eventually I got a haircut I was happy with and left the "salon" reasonably unscathed.


Ah, Keane, always the joker. Was that your handiwork in the recent Squelch entitled Top Ten Things a Frat Boy Would Do With a Time Machine?

The concept wasn't mine, but about half the entries were. Same goes for these two. I tried to make a combination list, of things a fratboy would do with a time machine if he only had five minutes left, but it got so elaborate I was using AutoCAD by the time I got to #4, and I had to give up.

But the question still remains: was that your penmanship that brought us the critical entry, Time Machine Number 4?

Put another way, do I and my New Jersey Muscle have you to thank for the torrents of rushees that came by tonight for dinner? (threat not included)

And in answer to your question: A Sigma Nu would throw a New Year's Eve party, wait until there was five seconds left, light a large bonfire, and then watch everyone else get naked.

i'm just impressed that sean was so fluent in embedded parentheticals at such a young age. even back then they must have known.

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About this Entry

This page contains a single entry by Sean Keane published on January 23, 2003 9:54 AM.

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