PICK ONE!

The radio dial was on the 60's station, and there were plenty of magazines on the rack to choose from.  Down in the shampoo and manicure area, the chairs were filled with women getting work done. Paul was upstairs mixing hair dye to put in my hair.


I sat in the swivel chair, with a plastic cape draped across the front of me.  With a magazine as my shield, and the music as my helmet, I was prepared to avoid this room full of pretentious, self-centered, self-entitled, self-important bitches.  Experience has taught me to avoid them any way I can, like the Bubonic plague.


The woman in the chair to my left was describing her profession to her hairdresser.  She said, "I have a therapy practice, you know, and I'm working from home.  It's a great way to conduct business and keep an eye on my kids at the same time."  Applying dye to her hair, the hairdresser went along with the conversation, asking where the office was set up.  She said, "My office is in the garaaahge.  My clients have more privacy there."


After I heard that, I had to look at her.  There wasn't any other choice.  I looked up discreetly, and glanced at her face in the reflection of the mirror in front of us.  It was hard to imagine anyone being screwed up enough to go see someone in a garage for psychological help.  Let alone, having that awful woman sitting on the other side of the desk, taking copious notes, and telling you why you're crazy!


Looking down at my magazine, I tried to block her out of my mind by focusing on the music. Paul came downstairs and began sectioning my hair, applying dye, and wrapping each section with foil.


The women on the other side of the room were asking each other about this new politician they've just heard about, named, Obama.  One of them commented that he seemed to be very 'articulate.'


The hairdresser finished applying the dye on the therapist's hair.  She gave her a magazine to read while waiting for the color to develop, and went upstairs.  The therapist had no one else on our side of the room to bore, so she decided to bore us.

Paul started in about how Bill  Clinton probably messed things up for Hillary in the primaries, because of his fooling around. The women pleaded his case, saying that 'power is the biggest aphrodisiac in the world, and women throw themselves at powerful men, all the time.'  After much deliberation, they exonerated him with the idea that, since he was the most powerful man in the world, the temptation was simply an occupational hazard.

Paul grabbed my shoulders and said, "I bet you'd fuck 'em, wouldn't you, Katie!"  I said, "I would not!"  He said, "Oh, yes you would!  Anyone would!  I'd fuck 'em if he asked me to!"  I said, "You'd fuck anyone who would ask you to, Paul!"


He stepped over to the giggling women and said, "Ladies -- let me see a show of hands. How many of you would have sex with Bill Clinton if you had the chance?"


The therapist chimed in, by raising her hand like she was under oath, swearing that she would certainly do it.  I kept insisting that I absolutely would not do it, and she rolled her eyes.


Paul said, "Well, let me ask you this, Katie:  If there was a gun pointed at your head, and you had to fuck either Bill Clinton, or George W. Bush -- which one of them would you pick? You've got three seconds to answer the question.  Pick one!"


I said, "These are my choices?"  He started counting, "One! Two!  I've got the gun to your head -- what's it gonna be, Katie?"  I yelled, "Go ahead and shoot me!  I'm not gonna do it!"


The therapist said, "What's wrong with you? Why didn't you just say, 'Clinton?'  That's a no-brainer!"  I said, "I'm done with this conversation, and I don't want to talk about it any more." She said, "Oooh -- so, you must be a Republican!"


I said, "What's this?  You're doing your therapy on me now? I don't want to fuck Bill Clinton, so that makes me a Republican?"


Paul went to get more hair dye, and the other women followed him upstairs, to the styling area.  This left me and the therapist alone with each other.


Still fuming, she glared at me in the mirror.  I stared at my magazine, feeling her contempt.  She said with a mean, threatening tone, "Well, I think he's VERY attractive!"  I said, "Well good.  There's more for you then, isn't there?"


She was just about to react.   I was just about to stomp her ass in the floor, if she did!  Paul came back downstairs with another bowl of hair dye, to finish hilighting my hair.  The therapist kept her mouth shut, until her hairdresser returned.  A wise choice.