I Don't Dig Dentists, I Don't Dig Barbers

My hair is ridiculously long.

So long it is curling up in the back. Looks kind of silly. But I cannot get myself to the barbershop.

Because I hate being trapped in a chair and being forced to engage in small talk. It just fucking irritates me. It is unnatural.

When you are in the barber/dentist chair, conversation is manufactured. These people feel that they have to make conversation so things don't get uncomfortable, so they just babble. And they talk about bland, "nice" things.

What they don't know is that I can sit in total silence with somebody 6 inches from my face and not feel uncomfortable. Doesn't bother me at all. I could spend an hour in the dentist chair, 20 minutes in the barber chair, in sweet, soothing silence. It would be a treat.

And the fucking dentist. Come on, man. They ask you questions when you got a mouth full of hardware and cotton and water sucking devices. I think it amuses them. I think they like the power of making you look like a fool - "Yeth, I mmn norm gummmm semmmm" - along with the knowledge that they are charging you outrageous prices to do their thing. Mock your pride, rape your wallet.

Dental insurance sucks, man - what is up with that? Carol spent 7 and 1/2 hours with two surgeons inside her skull and we never saw a bill. I am in the process of getting two crowns and it's going to cost us over $1,200 after insurance.

And yes, I have already been to the dentist twice recently and I have to go back two more times in the next two weeks. Which is why I carry a nine inch Italian Stiletto switchblade in my pocket. I am right on the edge. If it becomes too much I'll just stab myself in the fucking throat.

I hate small talk. I pretty much hate talk. Most of what bleeds into my ears does not interest me. Everyday bullshit. Mindless conversation. Nothing of interest. Nothing shocking.

If you are going to talk to me about the weather, why talk at all? What the fuck is the point.

Tell me you shot your husband in the back of the head before coming to work this morning and you get my grateful attention. Tell me you are a dedicated practitioner of voodoo and you just killed the deli man at Market Basket with one of your spells. Tell me you are a member of a religious cult that plans on killing every man on planet earth named Paul.

I find now that I am home alone so much I figure out ways to not leave the house. Avoid human contact as much as possible. I'll do all my chores in one day, just fucking get it over with, so I can spend two solid days in solitary confinement. Go to the dump, stop at the grocery store, pop into the liquor store, grab more fucking sand for the ice skating rink that is our driveway/yard, anything and everything.

It's challenging, but when I pull back into the driveway I smile inwardly in relief. Because I know that for the next one or two days I will spend 8 hours and 45 minutes per day not talking and not listening. That's how long Carol is gone when she is at work.

My vocal cords are supple and alive. I hardly use them at all so there is little wear and tear. I feel invincible.

So yeah, I got two more trips to the dentist coming up and I have to get a hair cut. I'm at the point in work where customers approach the window, take one look at raggedy Joe and shy away in abject fear, assuming I want to kill them (which I do).

This will not be easy. But I got my 9 inch Italian Stilletto switchblade greasied up and ready.

One quick gash to the jugular and my troubles are over.

Life is not hard when you got a plan.