Are there no homosexuals (or girls with tattoes and hair mascara) styling hair in Park Slope? I've had a straight man and now an older woman who seemed to be Greek (but she said "wary" instead of "very" so I suspect there's a story there) and they just don't get it.

Here's what I don't want when I go to a salon:
When I ask for foil highlights and a cut, don't ask me what time tomorrow I'd like to come.
John Legend and Phillip Bailey.
Silence.
Thirst.
Here's what I do want:
An offer of an inconvenient appointment time two weeks away.
Kelly Clarkson and Fergie.
Chit-chat about reality shows and who did what at the bar last night.
A compliment on my eyes or skin.
Suggest doing something really bizarre with my hair "next time".
Offer me something to drink.

That's it. Next time, I'm going to Manhattan.

On with the show . . . I went to two plays in two new parts of town this week. Seven-11 was seven eleven minute plays all taking place at convenience stores. It skewed a little young for me, but was in the Henry Street Resettlement Center, which was lower and more easterly in the LES than I've ever been before. It was actually a little hard to find because the street signs have been replaced by people's names, famous immigrants, I guess, or immigrant-helpers. It reminded me of my brother trying to find his way around Kuwait City after the Gulf War when all the street signs had been removed to confound the Iraqis. (More trivia: they played golf with orange balls on the sand. My brother and his clients, not the Republican Guard.)

Last night, it was Genet's The Balcony at the Medicine Show, which is in Clinton. (For some reason, it makes me feel too far from home when I'm in Midtown and can see New Jersey.) The play was funny, but overly complicated by about six thousand props, which kept falling all over the place. Several people walked out, presumably because they didn't know anything about Genet and didn't know "the balcony" is a whorehouse. It's probably the "Citizen Kane" of whorehouse comedies, really.