Home Alone

Levi went to Salida to spend the weekend in an amazing house on the river with a bunch of bachelor party guys. I am at my desk looking out the window at a yard full of dirt and weeds and wishing it were one o'clock so the lady at the salon could be washing my hair. Who even cares about the haircut -- just run your fingers through my hair for an hour. Sure, it's creepy, but it'll get you a much better tip.

But the cut should probably happen, too. For the last five years I've been asking Levi to take the shears to my locks, which is probably why I look like I haven't had a real haircut in five years. That's right, folks -- I haven't had a professional haircut in five years. I generally take pride in this, but sometimes you can't avoid looking in the mirror. My hair is stringy and split endsy and has recently lost a lot of its enthusiasm. Could it be the Thin Mints?

But that's not all -- at 3 I'm going to get an hour-long deep-tissue massage from a man named Andre. I know what you're thinking -- it's dangerous to make plans two hours after you get a new haircut because usually a new haircut doesn't work out for like the first month or so. Sometimes longer:

Hopefully when I tell the stylist "something new," she won't head straight to the back of the manual and turn my hair into something from Goorin Bros. I like Goorin Bros., but I've never felt comfortable putting a hat on my hat. And, like I said -- massage at 3. Nobody with that hair will ever get a serious massage, even from Andre.

I know what you want -- you want before and after pictures. So let's just say we're starting somewhere around here: