|...A few days later after another unsuccessful attempt at fixing my hair I decided to go to the Hollywood place and check out the guy from California. I was worried about having an appointment or having to wait a long time; I guess that's why I don't have a regular stylist because I don't like to do those things.
I walked into the salon, the music was pumping and the place was decked out with faux head models wearing every flavor and size of wig, hair extension and several headpieces that involved various fruits and feathers. MA Fat Woman--you ain't in North Georgia no more, I thought to myself. As I stood with mouth agape staring at one particular headpiece that seemed to sway with the rhythm of the music a snappily-dressed Hispanic man munching on tortilla chips came out from the back. "Hola', you like hair sculptures?" he said with a sweep of his hand.
"Uh, sure. That one seems to be moving, though," I said.
"Oh, yes, si! That is new design; very nice. You want? Good price!"
"You mean somebody's gonna pay to have you put that on their head? How much?"
"For you, cheap price. Only 75. Today is good day, too. We not so busy on Wednesday," he continued in his broken accent.
"You mean for $75, you'll attach a basket of fruit to my head and somehow get it to dance. It sounds like fun, but I was just looking for a haircut."
"Hehehehheh, oooohh, Chiquita, you make me laugh, not $75! It's $7500!
"Oh. Not to hurt your feelings or nothin', but I don't think ya'll is going to sell many of those in this town."
"What is ya'll? There is no one else, only me. I am Chucko Pedro Santa Rosa Hose Munoz from California."
"That's some name..."
"Gracias, but people call me..."
"Wait! I bet they call you Pedro?"
"No, Chica. But you are close. They call me 'P'."
"Well, that's some coincidence. I'm called 'G' and I'm from Ohio."
"Ah, Ha! High in the middle and round on both ends. You like Bengals? Carson Palmer was one of my first customers."
"What's that smell?" I asked...