DimeBag: The Weekly Dime Mailbag, Volume XIV

By: 12.29.11
DimeBag

DimeBag (design. Ryan Hurst)

HOW TO SUBMIT: E-mail dimebag@dimemag.com with your question/story/idea and include your name and hometown.

Word on the street is that I owe you a DimeBag or two. My apologies. The NBA season is back. No excuses. I will play like a champion.

Jason, St. Louis:

Will the Clippers have the same chemistry issues as the Heat did last year?

I have no idea. I hope not, for the sake of SportsCenter highlights. But at least I do know what happens when there isn’t any chemistry. Here’s an important and tangentially related story:

I got a haircut yesterday. My former barber retired, so I ventured into a new place. For the last few years, I’ve lacked haicut stability – a highly underrated security blanket for an insecure and overgrown child like myself. Bad haircuts are perpetual mood depressors: Someone comments on your excessively short hair, your last shred of confidence withers away for looking nine years old and you stumble through some sorry-sack excuse while you stare at your friend’s perfectly orchestrated mane. What a bastard. Have some sympathy. Tell me I look wise, or distinguished. Give me something.

So I walked in and meet my life re-shaper, praying that all will go well. I sat down, put on the anti-hair smock (or whatever it’s called) that conveniently (read: inconveniently) makes your phone inaccessible and prevents you from scratching every itch on your face. It just sits there, mocking the hell out of you. And it’s not like the itch goes away, or even stays the same. It gets WORSE. By the time I’ve eliminated this mortal enemy, I’ve left multiple red lines on my skin, possibly drawn blood and converted the itching to pain. Take that, itch. PAIN REPLACED YOU.

Anyway, the woman started touching my hair and spraying that water which assuredly possesses magical hair-cutting powers. Then she started touching my receding hairline, and I got nervous – somehow I thought if I remained insanely still, she wouldn’t notice it. And then, the bombshell from shaky confidence hell. She suggested a new hairstyle to accommodate my receding hairline, which, according to her endless buckets of wisdom, shouldn’t be happening to someone my age. Thank you, random woman.

So, you see? She was an awful teammate.

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