My hair is racist.

This weekend, after experiencing yet another bad haircut, I made a solemn vow: I am never going to let an Asian man or woman cut my hair again.

I have had my hair cut on several occasions by men and woman of varying Asian descent--Korean, Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese. In general, these stylists spoke poor English, suggesting to me they were recent immigrants (as opposed to second or third generation) who likely received much of their early training in Asia. With Asian clients.

Asian hair, in general, is bone straight and thin. My hair, on the other hand, was tailor-made for the 1980s: big, wavy, full of texture, and easily shellacked into gravity-defying shapes.

Every time an Asian stylist cuts my hair, I hate it. They either (a) cut my hair all one length, allowing my hair to settle into an unflattering triangle shape, or (b) cut too-short layers into my hair, giving me a little Sarah Palin up-do poof without the folksy charm.

Conclusion based on anecdotal evidence: Asian stylists don't know how to cut my hair. I'm sure that this isn't true across the board, and I've never had an Indian or Pakistani stylist, but ... I vowed this weekend, after yet another triangle-shaped haircut, NEVER AGAIN.

The difficulty, of course, comes when calling to make an appointment at a salon. When the receptionist suggests a stylist, I can't ask, at least not without sounding icky, "Is he Asian?"

So, this morning, I call a new salon to make another appointment to get rid of my triangle hair. I make an appointment to see a guy named Frank. I don't ask his ethnicity and instead roll the dice that Frank is a white boy's name.

Wrong. Turns out Frank is Asian, too. Don't they make flaming homosexual white male hairstylists in DC?

Of course, I let Frank cut my hair anyway. I told him over and over that my hair is wavy, that I like it wavy, that I am low-maintenance, and that I rarely blow my hair dry. He spent many, many minutes blowing dry my new Posh Spice hairdo and using a flat iron to straighten it.

My hair looks kinda cute now, but I won't know its true nature until I wash it and let it do its thing. So, the judgment is out on Frank. Will he buck my Asian stylist stereotype, or will he be Exhibit F proving that my hair is racist?

Whistle while you work to shut the hell up

To the guy behind me in the interminable airport security line who has been whistling for the last 20 minutes:

SHUT THE FUCK UP!

Do you really think anyone wants to hear your painfully off-key rendition of whatever little ditty you are composing in your head? Do you think this is creating a positive, relaxing ambiance for your fellow travelers?

It's not. You are the squeaky wheel of a dysfunctional shopping cart. You are the squeaky floorboard of an annoying upstairs neighbor. You are a squeaky door that prevents a horny teenager from sneaking out of his parents' house.

Did the numerous people turning around to give you the Stink Eye not clue you in? Or did you take this as encouragement to continue to torture your captive audience?

Forget waterboarding. The CIA should hire YOU.

Just Say No

In high school, my family moved to a suburban development with a lot of rules about aesthetics. House paint from a pre-approved color pallet. A certain number of flowering shrubs and trees per acre. No bass boats in the driveway (god forbid).

And the funny thing is, the neighbors followed these rules. I'm not entirely sure what the consequences would have been if my dad had parked his boat for the whole neighborhood to see. Flaming bag of poo flung at our door? It's not like the X-Files episode "Arcadia," in which Mulder and Scully go undercover in a hoity-toity planned community and find that an Ubermenscher kills residents when they break the neighborhood's Contracts, Covenants and Restrictions. (Yes, I can compare just about anything to an episode of the X-Files. Or Seinfeld.)

My urban neighborhood in DC has rules too. No parking pretty much ever without the express written permission of the mayor--that's a big one. Ignore it and incur the wrath of the DC parking police, the only effective branch of the city's government. The tennis court in the park just down the street has the Best Rules Ever, though. Two signs are posted on a fence surrounding the tennis court, both of which are noteworthy.

No drugs. OK, that's logical. No alcohol, OK. No weapons (besides my awesome serve, dude). Makes sense. No ... CAR REPAIRS? Huh? Really, has this been a problem in the past? What kind of car can fit through the three-foot-wide opening in the fence surrounding the tennis court? I would love to know the story behind this rule. I mean, presumably, someone at some point decided to fix up his car, and, you know, add some purple French tail lights and thirty inch fins, maybe. So, logically, he and his buddies ... pushed his car over to the tennis court?

The other sign suffers from two problems. Rule #5: I love that the sign specifies which drugs are not permitted. No smoking of marijuana. That's it. Feel free to hit the crack pipe or snort coke off a hooker's ass though. Rule #3: "Dogs Must Not Be Allowed to Be Curbed in Park." What kind of crazy ESL grammar is that? That's DOUBLE passive voice. Shudder. Also, isn't Rule #3 saying the opposite of what it means? From what I understand of the unnecessarily vague phrase "curb your dog," it means, "don't let your dog shit on the grass without cleaning it up." So, the rule is saying "Don't don't let your dog poop everywhere." Double negative double passive voice. My head just exploded.

While we are on the topic, I don't understand why DC (and I assume other cities) has "Curb Your Dog" signs everywhere. Really, who the hell knows what that means? I read that sign and think, "Huh, do they want me to take the dog to the actual concrete curb on the side of the street to poop? Isn't that grosser? Or do they want me to calm my dog down, as in, curb his enthusiasm? Just tell me what you want me to do!"