I’m sitting in a barbershop, getting a haircut. The stylist—a young woman—is new; I’ve never seen her before. She’s cutting my hair, snipping away, and casually asks: «You have such thick, healthy hair—do you do anything special to take care of it?» I reply: «Weeeell, I wash it with water… sometimes even with shampoo.»

I figured I’d made a little joke and we’d move on, but then I noticed the stylist looking gloomier and gloomier—her face just fell—and the longer she worked, the darker her mood became. About fifteen minutes went by, and apparently unable to hold it in any longer, she started muttering aloud—mostly to herself: «Holy shit, *fuck*. Shampoos, conditioners, lotions, serums, special treatments, laminating… The money just goes right down the drain—a quarter of my paycheck goes just to keep this damn hair of mine somewhat in order and to stop it from falling out. And *he* just washes his with water and shampoo! Where the hell is the justice in that?!»

I asked: «Sorry, did you say something? Is everything okay?» «Yeah, yeah, pay no attention — I was just talking to myself,» she said, and went right back to cutting, though her mood remained just as sour.

I actually felt a little awkward around her.