Here’s how lame a description of my day would be: I think I actually got a good haircut today. And I told the stylist, who also happens to be the manager, that I was glad I got her this time. I’ve grown so weary of those fly-by-night clipper people who won’t give me what I want. I just couldn’t go on and on saying, “Shorter. Shorter. Shorter.”

It got so bad that I almost (almost!) decided to go somewhere else. Since all change is bad, that would have been a big step into a dark crevasse that was probably filled with vicious pumas. It’s the very reason I keep the same job for eighteen years and live in the same rundown duplex for fifteen and rarely venture beyond the imaginary borders I’ve set up as my province. And yet, in spite of all the reasons I shouldn’t, I nearly went to a new place for a haircut this time.

Boy, am I glad I didn’t.

Although, come to think of it, it would have made a more interesting journal entry than this one.

On the other hand, it could turn out that I’ll wake up tomorrow morning with something on my head that looks as bad as my yard. Only not green, of course. Or maybe green, who knows? That would give me something to write about, too, so maybe I should shoot for that.