T-minus 11.25 hours.

I'm getting a haircut. In just under twelve hours I will have some random Sophie running her fingers through my hair, trying her darndest to make me look respectable.

Here's the thing though... Sophie is a "trainee" hairdresser. Now, let me get one thing straight -- I don't normally go to "hairdressers". I go to the cheapest damn place to get some large, cigarette stained fingers to snip away at my locks with these horribly dull scissors. This time, however, I'm going to Sophie. It's a free haircut, at a proper salon, and my haircut might make or break Sophie's soon-to-be booming career. She's going to be judged on speed, accuracy, and probably her answer to "How would you bring peace to the world?" Apparently this whole ordeal is going to take upwards of one hour.

Don't get me wrong, my best ever haircut in the entire world has been by a trainee hairdresser. That, however, was in the fashion capital of the world: London, England. And that haircut was in one of the trendiest parts of London, that being Notting Hill. Now, I know it's not fair to compare Christchurch, New Zealand, with London, England, but...... COME ON! I just hope Sophie doesn't massacre me and make me even more unattractive to women.

I know I shouldn't complain. It's a free haircut, whereas normally if one was to go to this particular salon it might cost me upwards of $39.90 (by the guide, anyway). I just get nervous about people deciding what I'm going to look like for possibly the next three months, or until I run straight out and pay my normal $10 for Jerry, or Ralph, or whoever, to shave me bald...