"I Need a Haircut."

Just an encroaching, stiflingly humid day. Which, compounded by the fact that I was roused from my Saturday morning sleep-in by the sound of my co-worker calling my loud-as-hell cell phone (I keep it that way so that I can hear it ringing when I'm out on the street, keeping my hoes in check), didn't make the earlier part of today that much fun. I got up, turned on the PC and made some emergency phone calls, and ate bibimbap, prepared by the wife.

Lethargic to the point of unconciousness, and suffering from stomach cramps (too much gochujang and indigestible "vegetables" in the bibimbap), I lied in bed for most of the day. I finally resolved to get up at 4 o' clock, because, if I didn't, my wife would probably have had my head cut off and cured -- to adorn the wall beside the others in her growing voodoo collection. Saturday is a day for recreation; barring that, it's a day for housecleaning. It definitely isn't a day for rest. What's rest?

I think all three of us -- myself, my wife and our daughter -- willed ourselves to go out, though none of us particularly wanted to. There's only so much loafing about the house one can endure before cabin fever sets in. I flipped endlessly through one inane TV program after another; my wife did the same in a separate room; and the little girl shifted between the two, hauling her books and toys around the apartment, as listless as her parents were.

Finally, I entreated that we head over to Seohyeon. Everyone was in mutual agreement that my suggestion was for the best. 15 minutes longer in our apartment and one or more of us was apt to look first like this:

And later like this:

We arrived and, not having a plan, decided to kick up dust in the Seohyeon bookstore, which, after recent renovations, is 25% less suckier. They've added more English-language classics (and, man, was I ever tempted to purchase the collected short stories of Hewlett Packard Lovecraft), and have placed all of their check-out counters on the ground floor, which I resent as a browser, (because it tricks me into picking up more books and items than originally intended), but love from a marketing standpoint. I'm torn, conflicted between my loathing and admiration of the new design.

After spending far too much on things I likely won't get around to reading until after my 110th birthday, we left. My wife asked where I'd like to go next, to which I responded "well, I kind of need a haircut."

I hate getting my hair cut. Not as much as I hate being kicked in the balls by hairy dwarfs in high-heeled stilettoes (and boy was that a bad dream...at least I hope it was a dream), but it's pretty close. And I have no reasonable answer for why I don't like it. Maybe it's like my fondness for devouring human flesh: a primeval instinct I still possess yet can't shake. Whatever the reason, I don't like having my hair cut.

Especially if it's a guy doing the cutting. Because, for one, I have to be extra careful that my elbows are tucked in, so as not to have the barber's balls rub against them as he semi-circles me (is that a term, semi-circle? I mean, you can circle a person, so it stands to reason that you can semi-circle them as well), which invariably occurs. Admit it, whether intentional or no, it happens.

Still, I needed a trim. My hair wasn't that long, but I have this condition...see, I sort of have wild neck hair. It drives me mad. My hair length can be pretty short, but I still will need to have it cut because of the creeping neck hair which, as I age, I'm afriad threatens to wrap around my throat and strangle me while I'm sleeping.

I've more than a few times considered electrolysis to rid myself of the problem. Along with occaisionally trimming the grass around the coconut tree, that's as far as I'm willing to tread into metrosexual country.

We first entered a proper salon, but because the wait was 10 minutes (translation: close to an hour), I opted to head across the street and have my head -- sorry, hair -- cut at an unassuming place with the betraying name Nice Guy.

One for the archives: if a haircut costs a measly 5,000 won, chances are you're not going to get the best trim of your life. In fact, you're probably going to get a fucking shitty haircut.

The experience has helped me formulate a new rule: never pay less for a haircut than you would for a McDonald's combo meal.

The dude that cut my hair didn't even spray it with water before cutting, meaning that my face was covered with tiny hair clippings -- which, of course, he didn't bother to wipe away (though I could plainly see that eraser-like thingy with which hairdressers do so). Nor did he completely trim away my malignant neck hair, the sole reason why I wanted my hair cut.

Finally, to top things off, I was ushered into a room at the back, where stood two sinks. It was explained to me that there I could shampoo my hair and wash my face. The former I did, apprehensively (I imagined that at any moment a Candid Camera-style film crew would emerge from a hidden door); the latter I passed on after seeing, resting near the sink, a bar of soap so flecked with the multitudnous hairs of past customers that it looked not unlike a small -- albeit a considerably soapy -- rodent.

I may never be the same. Can I be blamed if I never again cut my hair, growing a mane like Howard Hughes instead and isolating myself from the outside world?

Maybe I should have stayed at home after all.