I think that we all wanna be somebody. I don't think that, at any point, people decide to stop doing things with their life. Looking at some of the things we do to pay the billz, it's easy (for me, at least) to wander off in daydream land and think about the person I could become. If I wrote the script, what would I do? If money wasn't an issue, where would I go? I don't know if you're the same way as me, but if you are, these scenarios oftentimes seem out of reach. I am here to tell you that this is not true, that you can, in fact, be anyone or anything that you want to be. Better news is this - it doesn't have to happy in a daydream land. It will happen in the barbershop chair. There are two reasons I never pay money to get my hair cut by...ok, let's just go ahead and call them professionals. Reason number one: I am cheap/stingy/frugal/smart/want to be able to afford trips to Czech Republic and Italy and Germany and Iceland because I don't pay for stupid crap like matching socks or haircuts. When I graduated from college, my mother gave me the $15 hairclipping kit that she bought in Bed Bath & Beyond when I was in middle school. She would always cut my hair when I was growing up, even though I never tipped her, and quite frankly, I rarely even swept up after myself. The point is this: why pay for something that you can do yourself? If you can't do it, I bet you have a friend who would like to try. Reason number two: I loathe the bizarre and constantly-stalling chit-chat made by the seventeen-year-old who's cutting your hair while chomping on wads of bubble gum, some of the bubbles getting stuck in her swoop bang or pink highlights. Listen, Ashleey: you don't actually care who I am, or what I do for a living. You just want a funky name and a beehive hairdo.

So, on the rare occasion that I go to a real, brick and mortar hair cuttery place, a visit which is usually stemmed by an even more rare visit by a family member who, upon seeing my angled neckline and cringing, gives me a twenty dollar bill and orders me to "let a professional do it, for once." I give in. As soon as I sit down in the swivel chair, as soon as the spray bottle has efficiently wetted my scalp, and immediately after the chomping girl asks me what size guard I want on my hair, I get into character. Actually, this sometime starts before I'm even seen. If I have to physically sign in, I usually write a 90's baby name on the sheet, and I admit to stealing them from my weird residents when I was an resident assistant. "Denton, follow me", she says, and I follow bravely, proudly. I sink in the chair, hands on the armrests like a king in my castle, and the story unwinds. My career choices have been limitless. If you'd ask any of the hairdressers or hairwashers, they'd tell you that I was studying architecture, on a small college music tour, just visiting friends, a new immigrant to the country (which seemed to fail miserably because of my inability to fake an accent [ask me to impersonate an Irish accent] but the questionably-young hairdresser couldn't tell the difference). "Why are you in central Pennsylvania, Mr. DeLuca??", they ask. I was admiring the Capitol rotunda, checking out the local college scene, or simply pretending not to understand her thick, American accent. I have been a car salesman, a food critic for two different local magazines, and a grocery store cashier. It is fun to see their surprised faces, as they snip away behind the ears, or ask me to tilt my earth's axis so that they can reach cross-continental. "Colton, what kind of shampoo do you use?" I tell Brittni that I use whatever's in the shower, or, if I'm the business executive, I am sure to tell them that I separately use shampoo and conditioner, even though they can tell I use the two-in-one bottle. But the words are music to their ears, and they breathe a sigh of relief, thanking me for caring for my follicles so responsibly. I thank them in return, leave a measly tip, hop into my car and tussle my hair, wink in the mirror, and return to my normal, cyclical routine of sleep, work, trying to play and sleep. I may be boring for most of the year, but for an hour every eight months, I am a rock star.