I got a haircut last week. I didn't really need one yet, but Catherine's was getting into town soon and I thought I'd better get through those first few awkward post-haircut days before she arrived.

So I headed into my favorite non-threatening haircut factory chain, gave them my name and waited to be randomly assigned to a stylist. This is a risk, I know. Most people develop a personal relationship with the person who cuts their hair. It's understandable — this person holds a lot of control over your life, and you have to trust in them completely. It's kind of like with Jesus, except the tipping mechanism is different.

But I like a more stochastic approach. Usually I'll draw someone from the thick hump of the bell curve — a pleasant immigrant lady without much English who does a good but unremarkable job. Other times I'll luck out and get one of the women who dress like fortune tellers (quick rule of thumb: the more jangly bracelets, the better the haircut is going to be). Once or twice in Cherrydale I got a smokin' hot Asian girl with a fondness for sporting leather pants and bored expressions. She gave me terrible haircuts that I didn't mind a bit.

Today was slightly different, though. I got a male stylist. Not so weird in itself, but he didn't fall into either of the male hairdresser stereotypes: he was neither grizzled nor effeminate. He was just some guy, about my age, with a goatee. If I ran into him in any other setting, I would address him as "dude". He was a dude.

I'd been in this situation before, in a slightly more traditional barbershop setting. The barber and I got through it by talking a lot about how great it was when the Redskin Cheerleaders visited his mall. You know what else is great? Sports! Yeah man. Also, heterosexuality. Bitchin'!

But this time there was a shampoo involved. That proved to be a problem. I'd like to jump to my own defense and say "it's not that I'm homophobic!", but I'm not sure that I'm the one who gets to make that call. You can, after all, get into a lot of trouble for declaring yourself "not sexist" (lousy bitches). Still, I don't think it was homophobia.

I say that because, in a way, it was the complete lack of sexual tension that I found so disturbing. I find scalp massages, or anything approximating a scalp massage, to be just about the greatest thing ever. In Charlottesville I once got a haircut from a woman who was also a masseuse, and who tried to up-sell me on her services by administering a scalp massage more thorough than my $11 actually justified. I walked away utterly relaxed, feeling like my bones had been replaced with a pleasantly warm liquid filling. Also, I was keenly aware that I owed Catherine some flowers.

It just isn't the same when a dude — not a professional male hair-cutter, but a dude — is handling the hair washing. All I could think was "I'm paying for this?" and "How did our lives lead us to this moment?"

I need to be sold on the shampoo. I need to think the shampooer cares deeply about his job and, more importantly (of course!), my personal well-being; that this isn't just some horrible kabuki intended to symbolize clients' dominance over their groomers. This guy looked like he was just counting the hours until he had to go pick up his stripper girlfriend. Which is fine, but kind of diminishes the experience. Seriously, just give me a sink and a towel. I think I can figure it out.

What Ezra says. Sarah Silverman's act is pretty funny; the movie doesn't really add anything to it, though, except the padding necessary to achieve a still-unimpressive 72 minute running time.

She's only got one comedic insight, but it's an important one: that horribly offensive jokes can be told without meaning, but still remain funny. To say that the act becomes about the audience's response would be wrong — it's not that thoughtful. It's just about making the folks listening squirm while doubled over with laughter. When her material manages that feat, it's very, very good.

But there's a little too much filler, and her big finale is basically Jim Carey's talking butt bit. Pretty lame. Silverman is very funny, but doesn't appear to have great mainstream commercial prospects, and probably couldn't fill an HBO special. Still, I look forward to many years of bit appearances by her in various alt-comedy productions. Because really: what if David Cross had breasts?

Today's gonna be a good day — Catherine's landing at National around 10:30 tonight. But my lingering Puritan genes are pushing me to punish myself before that happens. The office where I'm working is close enough to National that, if I look out the window, I can read the signs on the airport's Metro platform. Heading home and then coming back out to meet her seems kind of silly, particularly given how far behind we are on this project. So it's gonna be a little bit of a late night.

Still, it won't be nearly as bad as the Thanksgiving death march I've arranged for myself. That day will begin with a 6AM bus ride to New York, followed by a couple of hours on a commuter train. Then it's dinner, back on the train, then back on the bus. I'll be getting home around 2:30AM on Friday, having discharged my familial duties in the absolute minimum number of hours possible.

I did the second half of this trip last year; it wasn't too bad, but I'll definitely need a good novel. I had my heart set on this (murderous antarctic amphibians? sold!), but nobody in the area seems to stock it. Suggestions for suitable replacements would be appreciated.