Like a rope-curtain for your neck!

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I'm not quite sure what to make of it. Now, I can't really be critical of people's hair since I haven't had a haircut since last July, but I saw what can only be seen as a mistake: the elusive dreadlock mullet. So here's what I think happened when this poor guy was at the barber.




"So what can I do for you, sir?"
"Well, I've been growing my dreads out for a while, and they're getting pretty nappy, so I want to cut them off."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Yeah. I'm trying to get a job in Portland Public Schools and need to look presentable."
"Okay then. You know, once I start cutting, there's no turning back."
"Yeah, I know. I've psyched myself up pretty good for this, so let's just do it before I change my mind."

And so the barber began cutting, starting in the front and working toward the back. He had to sharpen his hedge-trimmers a couple times in the process, but eventually managed to hack his way through the front half of dreads. At this point, he began untangling the ends of the dreads that were still stumpily-attached to the young man's head. He worked slowly but meticulously, and in an effort to forget about the haircut that was about to erase years of unwashable bliss, the young man fell asleep at the chair.

The front was starting to come along, and a fresh, presentable young man was emerging from the nappy forest. Stopping to admire his work, the barber slowly rotated the chair back and forth in front of the shop's enormous plate-glass mirrored wall. The rotations startled the young man out of his slumber. Fortunately the barber's scissors were sheathed at the time, because the young man jumped a little as he came to. Groggily his eyes focused on the enormous mirror, and seeing the business front he'd just been given, and smiled with naive content. As he admired his new potential for mainstream social-acceptance, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the reflection of a clock mounted on the opposite wall.

"Oh crap! I'm late for my interview!"

And with that, he whipped out of the chair, slapped a twenty into the hand of the barber and was out the door, back-door-dreads whipping in the whirlwind of complete unawareness. And the rest was history. He arrived at his interview six hours early, got the job, but spent the rest of his money on an FBI fingerprinting, a requirement for working for the school district. So he didn't have the money to get the rest of the dreads taken care of, and ended up keeping them out of sheer poverty.

And then he found a dollar.

The end.