One of the dancers in the show has a cosmetology license and isn't afraid to use it. So I went up to her room for a 10 buck haircut, which was the bargain of the century, because it came with extras:

• a proud plug for her rock-star boyfriend's band, with the promise of an autograph for my daughter/fangirl;

• some delicious dish on who skeevs the dancers because he's always peeking while they change costumes;

• a glimpse into the roller-coaster life of a consummate professional, as she agonized over whether and when to call back a casting director who might have a part for her after this show ends. (A big Beatle fan, she's hoping for a part in Cirque de Soleil's Fab-Four-themed Vegas show.)

I had to renegotiate the parameters of my own mop top at one point, because she had created a bit of spikiness, which I had to tell her wasn't really me. (I'm a no-product, comb-it-with-a-towel, kind of guy.) She admitted that she has gotten used to cutting the gay-boy dancers' hair. Apparently they're more picky, less decisive, and much more willing to style themselves than I am - no surprises there.

My haircut came out really well! Thanks, K!

My adorable, massively-parallel-multitasking stylist was last seen thumbing away like crazy on the screen of her new iPhone, furiously competing head-to-head with her uber-skinny rocker in some sort of two-player game. Ah, the entertainment biz!


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