Much to my relief, the hair salon I entered at random yesterday to make a hair appointment at for today did not, in fact, turn out to be a front for a drug-smuggling or white-slaver's ring.

The guy at the front desk seemed so surprised when I asked for an appointment that I wasn't sure.

My second fear was that maybe they only cut men's hair, and that they were just humoring me by letting me avail myself of their services. At the time, I consoled myself by reflecting on their sign of services (coloring, nails, weddings): surely that bespoke a female clientele.

But today, the chatty guy ahead of me spent ten minutes picking out hues he wanted mixed together for his hair, and then for good measure he had his eyebrows dyed too. So who knows. Maybe it is only for male peeps. Who carry lovely leather man-purses shaped like wine flasks.

But it's all good. As my gentle readers know, I don't enjoy being touched by strangers, but hair stylists who know what they are doing are the exception that prove the rule. Usually provided that they don't expect me to make idle chit-chat, but new hair guy and I proved exceptionally simpatico.

Definitely more simpatico than the loud-ass, drunk, green plastic-clad hordes on the El train home and I were. Even though there was one girl I could have bonded with because she was wearing the same urban outfitter's scarf I've been meaning to get rid of. I could have asked her how the sewn-in pocket and garish color scheme were working out for her, but we were separated by a cluster of swaying, plowed sorority girls yelling into their cel phones about how many more Guinness shots they planned to do.

So mr rampy and I will be going out for Italian tonight...