Arrival at Purdue with a Level 4 Haircut

Good Morning Everyone...
I'm writing from the Memorial Union on the Purdue Campus. Purdue is a fine institution, thought by some not in the midwest to be a private university; I've been told this has partly to due with our very strong alumni association / support and perhaps a few other factors as well. My most current dilemma is how on Earth am I going to type a well formatted e-mail without the use of basic keyboard functions, like: the enter key, right mouse button clicking, mouse-wheel scrolling, or copying and pasting. In this message you'll find I have very few carriage returns. The brings to mind the ever emerging style of Purdue University's information technology services. A word to describe the policies of security here at the university could be: dedicated. Of course, you might choose a different word like: zealous. I'm going with: 'Can't you even give me a carriage return?' It makes me wonder if the Purdue Constabulatory IT Dept would treat Chuck Norris this way. Clearly the fear of a roundhouse kick from tomorrow, crushing them today, and sending them into yesterday would make them think twice. (Dear Chuck Norris... Please avail us of your cure for IT Depts lost in zealoutry... The Jumping Roundhouse Kick of Fate) With regards to missing keyboard functionality and its effect on readable message formatting... It's in moments like this I need my friend Liz. She is a great editor. The best. She can out edit Mike Tyson in a cage match with ground glass boxing gloves in under three 3 minutes. K. O. Now... the meat of the message.

Purdue or Carnegie-Mellon...
The decision to attend Purdue University over Carnegie-Mellon was truly a tough one to make. During my visit to the campus I had the great fortune of meeting some of the professors with whom I will be working. The more I spoke with each professor, the more I realized that Purdue was like a home just waiting for me, filled with warm people and opportunity. My visit here has helped me realize I made a very good decision coming to school here. I met with professors, students and department staff. I have a school ID. I know which class I'll be assisting as a teaching assistant; CGT 211, Photoshop. I'll be teaching students how to use Photoshop. It's like I created a Photoshop tutorial DVD or something that 9.5 hours long and is available for purchase on Amazon.com: Advanced Photoshop Texturing. Though why they didn't place me in a Maya animation class, I don't know. Hmmm.... I've registered for classes, shook hands with people, kissed babies and generally campaigned for re-election on various hallow platforms which will be forgotten as soon as I'm elected the crowned ruler and awesomest graduate student. Please send in your absentee ballots. Extras can be sent upon request.

The Greatest Haircut on the Planet...
Living in Chicago has helped me understand Life in the urban fast lane. I've been putting my literal ear to the metaphorical railroad track of fast-paced urban living and taking notes on the sometimes minute and sometimes shocking tremors coming down the truly complicated metaphor of: fast-paced life as a railroad track upon which I lay my ear to listen and take notes. Of course... to truly understand the Life of the Fast-Paced Metaphor of Railroad tracks as Urban Living, I had to jump right into the deep end and experience Life as an urbanite (yuppy). I went for a hair cut!!! (I also went to see Sex in the City... but that's a relatively straight-forward story. I bought a ticket to a movie. I saw the same movie for which I purchased the ticket. I walked out when it ended. It was a pretty good movie but long and arduous in the middle. I think it was something referred to as a 'chick-flick.'). Read now this Shocking expose on haircuts in Chicago....

[Enter a mild, mannered young man of about 30. He wears glasses which leaves people to wonder if he's a super-hero when not hidden behind those groovetastic spectacles. The Setting: Fringe (the place of haircuttery). The mood: Metrosexual]

So I amble in, give my name, and get ready. I have a sit. They bring water. It's all good... for now. They call my name. I'm all like 'Cool man. I'll gets my hair cut now.' The barber, I mean hair stylist, introduces himself and offers a name I couldn't pronounce then nor can I remember now. Trust me though, it's trendy. It must've cost him a few crisp benjamins to procure that name, He's a jovial fellow, gravelly voice, older, sardonically hip, but only mildly. Before sitting me down he introduces the next gentleman, whose job it is to wash my hair. "I'm sorry... what? So your the guy that washes my hair?" Yes... it is. By the end of this story, not one but Two men will have touched my hair. I'm reporting this to Cost-Cutters. Let them feast on That tidbit. The hairwasher-gentleman is very friendly and very affected with a stereotyped personage of gay men, especially as portrayed in Sex in the City. He asked about my tattoos and inquired further if they had romantic implications ("Sir... you've been implicated in a romance. Don't try to deny it. Your tattoos gave it away. Just come out quietly with your hands up." "DAMN YOU TATTOOS!!! Say Hello to my little friend!"). I assured him that my tattoos had many meanings. This mollified and spiritually surprised him. Then the hairwashing ends and I am brought over to Mr Haircutter himself... aloofishly, mildly-sardonically hip man. He gets to business. He cuts my hair. We chat. I'm tired from moving. I'm drifting in and out of sleep. Then I make the biggest mistake ever. I tell of the time I went to a beauty school to have my hair cut... ONCE; and in this time described how my ear was nicked by the hair cutter person. Throughout the rest of our conversation and the rest of my haircut, he tells stories about how he accidentally did that... about how he accidentally cut someone's throat open who dumped on beauty school students and how he accidentally dumped that body in the foreign country of his aloofishly, mildly-sardonic hipsterism birth. I got the hint. I tried to change the subject. We got through it together; the haircut ended. At the end of business people like to transact money from person to person. This was no different. We walked to the front counter. He mumbled and whispered in the woman's ear (this woman will soon take my money... that's why they were talking). He whispered "61" to her. I though he must've been talking about another client. He walks away. She then asks how my cut went and says it looks nice. I say thanks. She says that'll be $61. I say okay. Here's my card. At this point Ms. Farrell says "How much was that?" To which I then replay in my mind what the woman behind the counter had just said. Shock finally awakens at the transaction. "I'm sorry... did you say $61?" "Yes." "For a hair cut?" "Yes." "For me?" "Yes." "I'm sorry ma'am. You'll have to excuse me. I wasn't expecting to pay that much money for a haircut." "You weren't?" Was she serious? "No ma'am. I wasn't." Well... she looks worried by this point and starts looking through paperwork. And here it comes the truth... "Well, he is a level 4 stylist." "A What?" "A Level 4 stylist. You see we have different levels of stylists. One, two, three and four. He's a level 4." Ahhh... it all makes sense now. A Level 4 stylist. Why didn't anyone tell me?

Level 4 Haircut...
I now have a level 4 haircut from a level 4 stylist. And I was left wondering... why didn't he like me. Surely he didn't if he was charging me that much. He must not have wanted me to return. But I didn't let this go without causing a fuss I'll have you know. I showed him something proper. He'll never forget the day he messed with me... let me tell you what. I only tipped him 10%. That'll show him. Yeah.... I'm too nice to people. So please... compliment my haircut. I don't care if you haven't seen it in a month or a year. Lie to me if you have to. After quitting my job and moving... a $67 haircut smarts.