Last night, I dreamt I had to get a haircut.
I don't know if was the wind blowing through the fan that sits in the window above my bed, hitting my face and making me think I had huge bangs that needed do be trimmed (I don't), or all the alcohol I had consumed before falling asleepů but in my dream, I really needed to get a haircut.
I was walking down the Venice boardwalk, on my cell phone with my dad. I don't remember what the conversation was about, but it wasn't as important as the barbershop I suddenly saw to my right: the perfect excuse to get off the phone with my dad and also trim my flowing bangs, which I only have in dreams.
"Dad," I said. "I've gotta go. I'm gonna get a haircut."
"How much is the haircut?" my dad said, out of nowhere. I wasn't sure why he cared, but I glanced at the price board above the barbershops entrance.
"Thirteen dollars," I said.
And then my dad did something I expected even less. He came through the phone and punched me, as hard as he could, right in the face.
"Ow!" I said, dropping my cell phone and reeling back. All the barbershop patrons looked up.
"What the hell, dad?" my dream self yelled, picking the phone back up. "Thirteen dollars is not that much for a haircut! Especially for LA. Also, that really hurt! Like in-real-life hurt!"
It was at this point that I woke up and realized my pain was realů for lying on my face, having just blown loose and dropped three feet onto the bridge of my nose and forehead, was my window fan.
I got up and groggily trudged to the bathroom mirror, to see where the nasty bruise was already forming. And to see that my bangs, not that I ever had any to begin with, were as short as short can be.