Last weekend I received a mediocre hair cut and went back today to have it fixed by another person.  Being the only man in the salon as well as having the only stylist not chatting nicely.  Her morbid and depressing answers nicely proved why she probably didn’t talk unless provoked.
Me: So, what does it take to become a stylist.
Her: A cosmetology degree that means nothing and two years of pain and losing your best friend.
Me: Well, if it makes you feel any better I make products for people who can’t shit.
Her: You know what’s shitty?  Having your new best friend get the job while you were away on maternity leave because she slept with the salon manager.
Me: Ha ha…  I sometimes have problems with my co-workers, but we all bear down when we realize what’s at stake.
Her:  My grandfather had inoperable brain cancer.
I decided to shut my mouth at this point after realizing anything I said from this point on would probably involver her responding that she had her first three children in a steamer trunk in her crawl space.