ezza mase

It was my first consumer experience in downtown blustery Chicago. They didn't take cards there, but were willing to cut my hair on my word that I would go to the ATM next door to get cash out. How could I possibly walk away from such kind people in such a long standing establishment? The three of them were fully italian, with the thickest accent belonging to my barber. I said "You must really think I need one", sat down and he began. I told him "1/2" off and get rid of some of the bushiness" and he nodded quickly and said "oh ok". After a few 2" long clumps of hair thudded in my vinyl covered lap, I knew this was a big mistake. He and I had a bit of a communication breakdown somewhere, from his incomprehensible answer to my question of where could I get a good pizza, to his comment "You have a lotta nice hai bot ezza mase", which was far more worrisome. With that, he cut and cut. I went in there against my better judgement. I thought "They must know how to cut long hair in Chicago". I soon learned that there is no long hair in Chicago, and this place was exactly why. The place had intensely loyal customers, all entering with a "left-parted George Bush", and leaving just the same.

I left the barber shop to get my cash with even less insulation in the windy 19 degree weather. My scalp was now seeping whatever heat was left in my body to the environment. If anybody should grow their hair out, it should be the folks in Chicago! I requested $60 and waited about 5 minutes for it to process. I tried to cancel but it was too late, and to walk off would leave someone else $60 richer. It was that cold. It finally said "take your cash" and I reached, but no cash. The receipt mentioned no error other than there were 60 fewer dollars in my account. After calling the atm company and waiting for them to call me back in the warm chamber of the barber shop. I ended up leaving my laptop at the shop for collateral, going north few blocks to a bank (with an indoor atm). By that time, I couldn't feel my face. People on the street had suits on with leather coats, wool scarves and knit caps, bare minimum. I eventually returned and paid the barber, and the atm company called me. The technician apparently looked at the machine and said it was fine, and this $60 was now "disputed". After making enough fuss over my cell phone, no one in that barber shop likely thought that that I was scamming the business for a "free whacking".

Thanking them for their patience, I began to leave when the owner said "Don't you have a coat?". I replied "No it's in my luggage at the airport" and left it at that. I walked absolutely hunched and pathetic, all ashiver, down the street in my search for not only more clothing to buy, but some hot legendary Chicago pizza. I must've looked like Gollum, leading the hobbits down their path to the cracks of doom. The pizza I did find, and it was Z best I have EVER had. I kid you not. Spinach, mushroom, 2" thick. It was at a place called Ronnie's steakhouse. This concluded my experience in downtown Chicago. The cook at Ronnie's had said that not but 3-4 blocks down the road, there was a place to buy clothes. I took his word for it and scurried back to the subway. Did I mention that my sweatshirt was elastic around my waist, and was constantly pulling my shirt upward toward my ribcage, and exposing my mid-section from my low-cut jeans on up? Yeah...it was sized for a 13 year old girl. The subway car was moderately warmer, and the ride lasted about 20 minutes each way. The scenary was something else. Skinny classic old industrial brick buildings leaning precariously, smoking furiously. It was beautiful in a desolute urban sort of way. There was a real order and stylization to the architecture, and gave me more of a sense of Chicago's grace and history than my interaction with its business facade.

I spent the next 7 hours looking for wireless spots in the airport where I could game with a friend of mine to no avail, and eventually picked up "memoirs of a geisha" which is a really good read so far.

The flight, landing, finding my car, driving home on the icy and incredibly windy I-84 was fairly uneventful, but when I reached duncan creek road and started up, my tires began spinning, and my car slowed to a stop, sideways in the middle of my first steep hill off of hwy 14. My only option was to back down the hill, and as I attempted that, my car further angled itself towards the edge. After some discussion, breaking, steering wheel flailing, sliding, and cursing, the car aligned with the road again and I eased it back down to the store where I parked and called mel. She put on her chains, now at 2:00 am, came down, and I drove us back without a hitch. See, I was insistent on personally tackling the hill with chains after my defeat, and was confident in my worst case scenario experience. Notta problem.