Waiting room writing is a feature that is surely sorely missed on this site. Today’s entry comes to you courtesy of the hairdresser’s lobby.

Yes, I am a man. Yes, I am at a hairdresser. Once relegated to the barbers of the world, today’s liberated man can confidently tend to his grooming needs side by side with his women folk. I am the very model of modern masculinity.

Postscript: The savvy reader will note the prior entry and find that the gig is up. Alright, it’s not like Cheryl asked me to strip and wax the floors (although I’ll bet a little stripping and waxing would be just the thing for our carpets and tile). There’s just something that doesn’t sit well with me in a barber’s chair. Maybe it’s the sitting prone while someone wields objects banned on all domestic and international flights? There’s no reinforced door between the barber and me. It’s mano y mano, and I’m the one practically tied down under a cape. No wonder I’m nervous.