Prior to my jaunt to San Francisco, I rang my trendy Euro-styled, British-owned hairdresser this evening and booked an appointment.

The last time I booked a haircut, I found to my dismay, that my regular hairdresser - Stephanie - had left the salon for pastures new. I was assigned a new "stylist" - Terri - who was old enough to be Stephanie's mum, but could cut hair just as well.

Anyway, today, I spoke to the young man working the desk. As with my Christmas shopping anecdote, I was weary, and therefore short on patience. The conversation went like this:

Me: I'd like to make an appointment please
Guy: OK, for what?
Me: Well... a haircut.
Guy: OK. Is there anything you wanted?
Me: Yeah, less hair at the end of it.

Update - PUN ALERT
I wanted to leave this piece just there, but in an effort to stave off certain neferious pun-makers, I'm forced to suggest that (given the headline of this piece) the conversation continued thus:

Guy: Where do we go from here?
Me: Is it down to the lake I fear?

Dear Lord have mercy upon my soul.