X. Salon Fresh

I used to get the cheapest haircuts I could find. I would walk in, say "I'll have the Moe Howard (you know, the leader from the 3 stooges with sick-ass chili bowl cut)," and walk out 30 minutes later with something that would make Moe wear a ballcap for two weeks.

The price was $9.95, and if you didn't like it you could even come back and they would attempt to fix it for free. For every one haircut, I averaged three post-op visits and one letter to a district manager.

Then, somewhere along the way about two years ago, a friend gave me a free haircut at a fancy salon. I was very uncomfortable at first, the kind of discomfort Jed may have felt as he rode into L.A. with an old woman in a chair on top of his car.

But the difference amazed me. Here is how my old place worked.

They would advertise "No reservations!" as if it were a good thing. So you would show up and be put on a waiting list for an hour. That gave you just enough time to catch up on the past three years of Entertainment Weekly and to watch a hobo across the lobby use a coffee can as a restroom (it may have been the same hobo who filled Apollo with such wisdom, but I guess we'll never know. Will we?).

You watched nervously for which stylist would get your ticket. Sometimes you got somebody decent, and other times you got someone with darting eyes and a bloody apron.

When you left, you would feel dirty – even ashamed. So you sat on the shower floor, crying, hair flowing into the drain, swearing never to return. But it was all you knew, so you went back, and made excuses to disbelieving friends. Parents would often subtly offer to let you move back home.

But now, at my new salon, it is a whole new world. I arrive, and rose petals are thrown in my path by Asians. I get floated to my chair by angels, where a beautiful maiden washes my hair with ambrosia. God whispers scripture in my ear as the milk-chested stylist works her fingers through my follicles, massaging them individually. Butterflies flit about as I stare at myself in the mirror. Narcissus walks by, does a double take, and can't keep his eyes off me.

At the conclusion, I stand, beams of light radiating outwardly from my face, and hot virgins hold onto my legs like kids as I try to walk toward the door.

All it costs me? 60 bucks plus tip. Expensive, I know. But now I only get a haircut every four months. Until I am mistaken for Teen Wolf three times, I won't pick up the phone to make another appointment.

Sure, when the haircut is finished, the floor looks like a squadron of sheepdogs cross-cut through a woodchipper, but I look great.

At least that's what they tell me at the salon, for $60 ... plus tip.