Shaken and Stirred

I tried the hair saloon once. What I mean by that is that I went to the expensive, air-conditioned Britney-Spears-playing stylists as opposed to my regular round-the-corner barber. This was after I came back from France and my long, flowing European tresses were getting stripped away by the minute in the heat and dust of India. As it had been more than eight months since my previous haircut, I was willing to experiment. Besides, there was the little matter of the 50% off coupons in my possession. I was turned away at first when I reached there since I had not taken an appointment beforehand! Not one to get the hint fate was giving me in the form of the rejection, I scheduled my coiffure at a convenient hour. At the anointed hour, the first thing I noticed in the saloon was that I was the only male customer there. Of course, there was no dearth of spiky-haired, booted-up, covered in body art, men in black stylists that were present. Once in the hot seat, I got the sales pitch about