Ladies, if you were to ask one hundred guys these questions, I believe the numbers would break down something close to this:

If you asked 100 guys:

90 of them wouldn’t give a care at all that you painted your nails, or what color you painted them.  Eight of them wouldn’t even notice.  One would be turned off by it, and one would be turned on.

I know women don’t believe this.  "My guy loves my painted nails!  Aren’t they so cute?"  Yeah… go on and think that.  While you’re thinking that, the guys have already moved on to your chest.

If you asked 100 guys:

70 of them don’t like your sissy little dog.  25 will tolerate it, and five will actually think it’s cute.  One or two of those five may even consider it to be "his" dog too.  This is a sign that your boyfriend may be gay.

A real dog says "woof woof" in a  masculine, basso, authoritative way that makes cats scared and children cry and mailmen wary.  Any dog that goes "yip yip yip" and runs around in a circle chasing its tail, or can fit in a purse, is not a real dog.  That is a travesty of either evolution, or selective breeding.

If you asked 100 guys:

All 100 would look surprised and concerned when the car cuts off and slowly coasts to a stop on the edge of the highway.  100 of them would then proceed to get out, open the hood, and peer into the engine compartment.  100 of them would look in with a puzzled expression on his face, 40 of them would understand what the problem might be, five of them might know what to do, five more could probably fix it, and the remaining 50 have no clue whatsoever, but will pretend that they do.

If you asked 100 guys:

99 of them would give a very hesitant "Ok", and pick up a package of your feminine hygiene product while he’s at the store and you’re home not feeling well, but: 50 of them would try to sneak into the isle unnoticed, or try to play it off somehow.  39 of them would feel pretty embarrassed purchasing it, 10 of them are married and it’s not too big a deal, and the one left over?  No way.

If you asked 100 guys:

Probably 75 of them will admit Brad Pitt is hot, in a manly sort of way.  10 will call him a pussy or a pretty boy and think they could kick his ass.  Five will think he’s way overrated and not even worth thinking about, five more will admit that he’s just cool and it would be pretty cool to hang out or get a beer with him, three will be severely jealous to the point of absurdity, and two will have man crushes in a homosexual kind of way, but keep it closeted.

If you asked 100 guys:

I’d say 80 would rent The Notebook and watch it with you, but 50 of them would demand some sort of retribution, possibly involving sexual favors, later on.  30 of them would do it "just for you", and just suck it up like men.  20 of them would have "something come up", and give you full permission to have a "girl’s night" with your girlfriends, while he drinks beer and plays pool with his friends.  Win-win.

If you asked 100 guys:

95 of them would look at you like you were absolutely crazy when you ask them to take you to see the Sex in the City movie.  Still, 85 of those 95 would still take you and suffer through it.  Ten would refuse however, and you’d have to bribe them.  Five of the initial 100 would go willingly, and all 100 would hate every minute of that god-forsaken film about evil materialistic bitches.

If you asked 100 guys:

Even 50/50 I think.  Half would agree with my numbers, half would not.  That’s okay. 

There’s a new barber school in Midvale. It’s right behind the jewelry store, and a short walk from my apartment. Having the misfortune of looking in the mirror this morning and noting my amusing appearance, I thought maybe a haircut would be just the trick.

Now, I don’t much care for my hair. That’s not to say that I don’t take care of it. I wash it daily and occasionally condition it, then I comb it and style it and pretend that it looks decent. But I don’t obsess over it. It’s not worth it, because my hair has a mind of its own. I may get out of the shower and style it up all nice, maybe a dollop of gel, but as soon as I look from the mirror it’s poof city. Seriously, I have no control. It pretty much does what it wants at that point, so while I may think “Brad Pitt” when preening in the mirror, my hair is perfectly happy styling itself into a reject prop from a Wendy’s commercial once I turn away.

So I don’t obsess. These days I tend to wear it kinda longish and floppy. It gives me a more youthful appearance (in my own mind) and means I can be lazy and not get it cut for months at a time. I’m capable of trimming it up a bit myself, courtesy of the clippers I bought a few years ago and a smidgeon of knowledge passed on from my stylist mother. I draw the line at actually cutting it though, save for the times during the summer when I just buzz it all off. Several Attractive Females have the opinion that I look better with the hair though, so in my misplaced vanity I do my best to abstain from shaving it anymore.

Since I lack the skills (read: bravery) to cut it myself, and because it started to resemble a wildlife preserve, I decided to get it cut. There are two more factors in this decision. One, it was a beautiful Spring-like day and I could take a nice walk down to the place, and two, haircuts are only $5.

Haircuts are only $5 there because it’s a school. A Barber school, and the barbers are students. Some people might balk at this, thinking there’s no way some under-skilled student is going to touch my lovely thatch, but I have no such reserves. If they butcher it, I’ll just buzz it. Easy and simple. I’m a guy; hair isn’t a huge deal unless it’s thinning.

The girl I got seemed confident at first. Eager and willing to put her hard-earned knowledge to the test. I sat down and outlined what I wanted in direct and specific guy terms. “Take some off the sides and make it un-poofy,” said I. She seemed to understand. Her instructor (older guy with pretty hair) hovered about as well, occasionally peering over at her progress, peeking from under his glasses and giving the sporadic “uh huh” at times. What interested me is that once she started, some of that confidence waned. Instructor Guy took over and gave a few example snips, demonstrating the proper technique, and she seemed to follow. I did notice a peculiar tendency to cut too little though, as she would run the comb through to gather up a pinch of hair, then cut like .0000009-tenths of an inch off of one strand. Instructor Guy’s only comment was “She’s one of our most careful ones.” Uh huh.

After about twenty minutes or so, she pronounced me done. Honestly, it didn’t really look any different than when I went in. It feels slightly different, maybe trimmed up and straightened out a bit, which is subtle but not wrong. Upon further inspection, it does appear to have been cut, although I could stand to lose a bit more. Even so, I’m happy with it. I thanked her (she let out a relieved sigh, as if she’d been nervously holding her breath the entire time) and paid my $5 to the receptionist, with a $2 tip to the student. I even let them add me to the client list, thinking I’ll likely be back next time.

Five dollars isn’t a bad deal at all.

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