For Entertainment Purposes Only.

Dear Iranian Woman Who Cuts My Hair,

I am flattered by your offer to be your boy on the side. That you insist I’m Persian only makes your offer that much more amusing. Whatever you want me to be, baby.

But, you see, I cannot afford you. You’re too well put together. I can tell that you’re used to having whatever you want… whenever you want it and no matter what the cost. I don’t suppose this knowledge, but instead base if off your comment about Santa Monica: “It’s too poor down here.” Of course, the “down here” part referred to your status atop the hill overlooking we common people. That mighty hill called Brentwood. I’m pretty sure that Brentwood resides at sea level, too.

But it’s clear that local geography is not your strong suit. You’ve traveled so far. All the way from Iran, with your husband and son. You say I remind you of him. Doesn’t that put your offer in the creepy column? Whatever you want me to be, baby.

But no matter where you live or who I remind you of, my wallet does not suddenly fatten at the sight of you.

The immaculate hair, the taught physique, the trendy cut jeans devilishly revealing your licorice-thin thong and your seductive gaze cannot penetrate my Low Class Armor. You can use your Farsi accent and breathy voice to disarm me while I’m in that chair, but once I leave Fantastic Sam’s, you have me not.

Normally, women who cut my hair aren’t so gentle and then rough with my mane. It’s almost like you’re testing me out, trying to see what grabbing onto my youthful hair feels like in the heat of passion. I’m just your plaything on the side, and you’ll do whatever you please with me. Whatever you want me to be, baby.

But, alas, it can never be, for you are Iranian and I am Lebanese & Irish. In the interests of remaining patriotic, anticipating a conflict between our homelands, I cannot be yours. In the interests of retaining the services of someone who ably cuts my hair, I cannot be yours. In the interests of my fantastic relationship with my beautiful Aryan Princess, I cannot be yours.

But you will miss me. You will miss me when you settle for the stocker from the Sav-On right next to your place of work. You’ll be slapping his bald melon head wishing you were grabbing onto my jet black hair.

But I will not miss you. I do not want you. Thanks for the cut, though!

Sincerely,

That Hot Lebanese Dude You Scam Every Time He Comes In And Tries To Get A Haircut From Somebody Else But You Insist On Taking Me But I Can’t Refuse Because That Would Be Rude.