I came back from Baltimore via car, then train, and I sat in front of two women, one of whom kept saying, in a very nasal voice, about how she'd like to have male genitals so she could do a little oppressing. Needless to say, I forsook reading to listen more closely. It was a strange mix of suburban teenager, angry feminist, and political lesbian. A typical statement:

"Oh my God, I hate the way they HOLD ME DOWN, it's just so quasi-Statist, and they just forget, TOTALLY forget the woman, and, here, I've got a speculum in my book bag..." The old woman to my left looked afraid.

I was relieved when they got off at Princeton Junction, but they were replaced by something worse: Manhattan Intellectuals. Three of them split the New York Times.

"Can you believe this article about the Getty center?"

"It's written by Susan Paul. She's trash, just trash."

"I can't stand it, I can't stand the magazine section anymore. Their art coverage has become so populist there's nothing for people to enjoy anymore. And the use of color through the paper is so garish."

I kept clenching my fists, and took notes in my little notebook.

After getting off at Penn Station, I visited my friend Alex, so he could cut my hair. I did most of the cutting with my electric razor, and he cleaned up the back and top. It was fun; I kneeled over the sink, and he stood on the toilet and made fun of how big my head is.

As he trimmed with scissors, I told him "this would be a perfect movie seduction scene. I'm staring at your chest, you're touching my head and bumping into me, we're chatting. I can see the setup..."

"Well, sure," I said. "I mean, that's a given. But given a different set

"Stop moving or you'll have stripes," he said, clippers buzzing.

###

And then this morning at work, I found that three of us had haircuts the night before, all very short. The three shaven walked to H&R bagels. Ed, a salesman at the company, said, "I just had my friend Todd trim me. I can't deal with getting it cut at a barber's."

"I had my friend cut it, too," I said.

"It's an hour out of my life if I go somewhere to get it cut," said Ed. "And besides, I used to get my hair cut by a chick, right, and..." He took a little breath, "I just had to stop."

"How come?" I asked.

"I'd leave there all agitated. She'd stretch up to comb the top of my hair, and press against my shoulder and..." He paused. "It seemed naughty. I felt guilty when I got home and saw my girlfriend."

"Was it a good haircut?" I asked.

"No, this girl couldn't cut hair at all."

"I bet she always got a good tip, though."

"Great tip," he said. "Half again as much money."

Bob had stayed quiet up to this point. "I used to get my hair cut by a woman," he said. "She would talk about her boyfriend and I'd always change the subject. It totally ruined the haircut when she talked about him. I stopped going to her when they got married. I get my hair cut by a guy named Muzzy, now."

"It broke your heart when she got married," I said.

He nodded. "I used to look forward to haircuts. I marked the calendar. Elaine always offered to cut my hair, but I was like, 'Honey, I love you, but I really want a professional haircut.' She definitely knew why I was going. She thought it was funny."

"As long as you don't buy the hairstylist gifts," I said, "or take her on

"I wanted to give her something special, yeah. Especially when she shaved my neck."

"That's the exact reason I had to stop," said Ed. "She'd scrape that razor over the neck and I'd have to hold the armrests to keep from fainting. I'd end up with sore hands from gripping so tight. I had to end it before I had a heart attack."