More Fun with Mr. Potato Head
The other day I decided to get a haircut. I have vowed to put some legs 'neath my opinions and complaints about the government and get involved in helping our Democratic candidate get elected to Congress. On Tuesday there was to be a mailing at Headquarters and I wanted to join in, and figured it was a good time to do something about my shaggy mane. I tootled over to Supercuts where I was soon being asked rather technical questions about how exactly I wanted my hair to be cut. In the past the person has always done about the same thing no matter what I say... they can tell I have pried myself out of my apartment for a haircut I could put off no longer and just buzz-snip their way through it. This time after her questions she fired up her clippers and I was soon being shorn like a sheep. In no time flat it was over and the shape of my noggin was there for all to see. My hair hasn't been this short since about the time of that kid you see there, first or second grade. It feels fuzzy again.

A friend told me she didn't like my mustache. I asked her preference and after some thought she told me I should go with the goatee configuration, rather than clean shaven. She has some problem with mustaches, she confesses. I decided to defer to her opinion -- even though she keeps me at arm's length, at least she's willing to be seen in public with me from time to time so she gets the nod of my fuzzy-wuzzy head-bone.