A Hairdresser?!

I'm so tired of it, sometimes. Ya know? The whole fucking routine?

That's what I told Kevin tonight, twice, not that he listened. Too busy staring at the green eyes which were, in turn, staring at his chest. Whatever.

Maybe if I'd spent the past five years somewhere else, doing something else. Doubtful, but just maybe.

Tired of being outclassed by the declasse. Tired of being outsmarted by the profoundly stupid. Tired of being deep-sixed by the unfathomably shallow.

"Yeah," he said, and turned back to the fellow with the inelegant highlights. You'd think a hairdresser would, at least, have better hair.

The Giant Queen had another drink waiting for me when I wandered back. "Red hair and an elaborate tattoo," he said. "You're awfully predictable."

"And?" I said.

"Much smarter and prettier than him."

That's the kind of talk that makes you glad you sprung for the Moet. Them's the words that forge a friendship no boy can shake.

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