10:30 AM
I've been asked why I post to my blog so much. Now I have an answer: at least when I'm sitting at my computer I don't get stabbed in the head!

For almost ten years now I've been getting haircuts at the College Barber Shop here in Madison. (That may seem like a long time, but judging by the photos on the wall that show basically the same shop in the 1940s, I'm just a blip in the place's history.) It's a long, narrow room, ten feet wide and forty deep, with a long mirror and a row of barber chairs down one side.

Usually I get my hair cut by one of the barbers (who are both male and female; is 'barber' a gender-neutral word?) in back, but this morningI came in and was brought up to the Front Chair. This is the chair at the head of the line, near the door and the front window, overlooking the most bustling boulevard in Madison, State Street. The barber for this particular chair is the owner of the shop, and when I come in he's usually busy cutting the hair of local politicians, businessmen, and athletes. It's not that I felt any great honor going up there, per se--it just made me realize it was a slow morning.

So I sit down in the chair, which is then rotated so that I'm facing the front window. This is nice, because it allows me to watch the passers-by. The barber stands behind me and goes to work. He had just set aside the electric razor for the scissors when I felt a jab above my forehead. That stung a little, I thought. But no big deal. Just caught by the edge of the blade or something.

So the hair-cutting continues, and I feel a trickle down my forehead. Water, I think; the barber had sprayed me down a few moments ago. Then the fluid drips off my eyebrow, over my cheekbone, and down to my lip. Weird, I think. Salty.

Wait a minute...

The next time he was between clips, I turned to face the mirror and saw that I had a red streak running down the left side of my face! "Whoop," said the barber, who gave me a towel and felt through my hair until he found where he had apparently inadvertantly jabbed me.

So for a few minutes, instead of the minor local celebrities that were usually seen in the front window of the College Barber Shop, the passing workers and students got to see some guy keeping pressure on his head with a wad of bloody paper towels.

These are the kind of strange things that happen to me. They do have upsides, though: after the wound had clotted, the barber went to great lengths to make sure I ended up with a decent haircut, and then gave it to me for free. And now, three hours later, I can feel the slight sting of the spot, but can't find it visually. So I guess my first assessment--no big deal--was correct.

But I'd still rather be here typing than getting stabbed in the head.