Where was the Happy Ending?

Getting haircuts are awesome. We feel 900 times sexier when our hair is short, neat and clean. When we're freshly groomed, we know we could totally bag Carmen or Stokke or Archuleta's boo boo. But due to budget restraints, we get lined up about every five weeks, rather than the every two weeks we'd prefer.

The place we go is close to UW, so it's usually filled with students. But the people cutting hair are not students. No, no, no. They're these young-ish Japanese women whose English is a three out of 10 and hair-cutting skills aren't much better.

But it's cheap. Cheap is good. We're paying for the use of fucking scissors and clippers. We once got a $30 haircut and expected a New York steak and glass of Merlot when we were done. Didn't happen.

This place is about $15 and they even include a wash. That's huge. Having some one else wash your hair is fucking ecstasy. Why people pay good money to get a massage is crazy. Just have some one wash your hair. Talk about relaxing.

OK. After the hair cut, the woman -- maybe 30ish -- walks us back to wash our hair. It's awesome. All soothing and shit with the smell of peaches and sunflowers in the air.

When the wash was done, the hair cutter gave us the eye. We returned it. We were both thinking the same thing.

Her: You know what $20 more will get you, right?
Us: Price does not matter.

It all was about to go down, but some one else entered the shop and the masseuse barber thought better of it. And that was that.

Let's just say the tip was minimal.