Cliché

Under The Siccors

Chapter thirteen

Danny

"A salon?" my mothers reaction could've been worse, but it was still embarassing.

"Yes mom. I need a hair cut." I said firmly. She needed to see I was serious about this.

"Why dont we just go to the barber then?" She smiled. She must've thought I was off my rocker. (Maybe I was.)

"No mom. It needs to be... Styled. Not just cut." I nearly winced at the word. No guy I know ever gets his hair styled.  

"Styled? The barber can style it. Do you want a #2 on the sides instead?" Mom mother asked. I think she knew where this was going and was trying to change my mind.

"No mom, I want it professionally styled. By a stayalist. At a salon. Theres a good one in New York-" The fact that I had actually researched this was killing me. Where was my manhood?

"We dont have time to drive into New York, thats an hour drive. Dont you have that community service stuff to do?" She asked.

"No mom, that ended two weeks ago. I did my 100 hours." I explained.

"well.. I... John!" My mother called my father in from the other room. When ever she doesnt know what to do she calls my father. He came marching into the kitchen like a knight in shining armour to rescuse my mom from her confusion.

"Whats going on?" My father asked. He wore a custom frown, one he'd been excerising well in my presence. He was still mad at me for almost getting suspended and spending the day in jail. (Four hours wasnt even a day, the man was over reacting.)

"Never mind mom." I grumbled. I should've known asking her was a bad idea. I seriously needed a car. (I didnt even have a license for God knows why.) 

Greg was my last resort. He was going to think I'd lost my mind, but it was a part of the plan. And part of the plan was not telling Greg about the plan. So I was going to have get a ride from Greg to a salon to get my hair styled, (which was part of plan) and not tell Greg why. Which was going to be a little difficult, because I rarely ever even go for hair cuts, so why would I suddenly want a new hair style? My hair was messy and long, (by guy standards,) it covered my ears and was half way down my fore-head.So maybe I just wanted something knew? I'd find an excuse.

It took 20 minutes of persuation to finally get Greg to drive me to the city. He didnt own a car but he had a license and could borrow his moms car.

"Whats the place called?" Greg asked as I got into the car.

"Fazzy." I said. Greg gave me a weird look, which was totally uncalled for coming from Greg. He was still sproting his "poetic" outfit and was quiet as ever. Every once and a while he'd pull out a notebook and scribble something down. Greg was nuts, he had no right looking at me like I was the one who had lost my marbles when he dressed like the drunk New York version of Edgar Allen Poe. (And let me tell you, its not a look Greg pulls off.)

"Fazzy it is." The car ride was an hour and a half, (we got lost twice on the way) and it took us another half an hour to find the salon. It was some-what big looking, with large glass doors framed with steel. It looked very modern, for lack of better term.

As soon as we walked through the doors I was hit with the smell of perfume, and I and I had to force down the coughing sensation crawling up my throat. Greg however started coughing like no tomorrow, probably just to embarass me more. He barley even asked why I had wanted to go, I just promised him 20$ and a detour to the video game store in New York, which was enough for him.