Saturday Night at the Playground

Never get your hair cut by an artist.

Last night Margie and I went to the "opening" of the art space we visited last weekend. It was pretty cool - really just a kegger with weird alternative artsy types, many of whom, I couldn't help noticing, appeared to have a mild case of mange. It turned out one of the guys was giving haircuts in his little cubicle and collecting the clippings for some project, at the end of which I think he said all the hair would be burnt. I gratefully declined a haircut, but donated a lock for the bonfire.

It was amazing how much they'd done to the place in just a week. For one thing it was actually cleaned up and looking rather livable, which I wouldn't have expected. But they'd also built a stone wall across one of the lower-level cubicle entrances, so the only way to get into the space was to slide down into it through a small opening in haircutter guy's cubicle upstairs. If this was impossible for you because you were wearing, say, a bit of a short skirt, you could still hang out with the group by poking your head and shoulders through the opening, which gave an interesting perspective of what it must feel like to be a hunting trophy. They'd also lain down sod on the floor in the lower level and installed some rather nice mood-lighting; there was a DJ on the upstairs platform, and they had clay and paint and Sharpies so people could add elements of their own.

It was great fun, though as the evening wore on, haircutter guy - who himself has a nice thick curly mop - became increasingly anxious about going to sleep in his cubby in a place full of people with a strong motive for revenge.

That's artists for you, never thinking of consequences.