Special Guest Blogger: Let's Have a Warm Round of Applause for Will Hopper!

Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the first of (hopefully) several guest bloggers. You guys deserve better than my same-old same-old, and of course I'm studying with the creme de la creme in terms of hilarious writers. So let me introduce Will, who I asked to put together a little entry about...anything! This being the halfway point of the semester, we're all feeling pretty reflective. Will especially. Please enjoy!

Dublin. Dublin? Dublin.
Can’t wait to get the hell Dubl-out. I hate to say it, but it’s no wonder Ireland is known for its immigration. Duh-blin-there, done that.

Yet, no regrets coming here, at all. I don’t believe in regrets.

Wait. Yes I do. Allow me to elucidate.

Yesterday morning, I woke up bright and early to get my haircut. I noticed last week while in Barcelona that the humidity turned my hair into something that Diana Ross would be jealous of. I found cowlicks that needed some serious mowing, so I popped into the hair salon below my apartment to get the situation under control. Made an appointment. It was good. Awesome. I’m going to get my haircut. Trim. That’s all I want. Just a trim. Simple. Easy. In-and-out.

It was very professional, or so it seemed. They offered me magazines and coffee while I was getting cut. All seemed to be going smoothly. And when they are done dancing around your chair for about 20 minutes, they say ‘look good?’ and, after struggling with painful hairdressing small talk, I say ‘looks fine,’ just so I can get the hell out of there, go home, and go back to bed. The lady said ‘You were the first haircut of the day. Cheers!’
Cheers to you too, sweetheart.

When I get out of the shower about half an hour later, I wonder if I misunderstood what she had said. Did she say ‘I was the first haircut of the day?’ or was it ‘I was the first haircut… EVER?’

I look in the mirror. I start to sweat.

I look like a friar. I look like Thomas Aquinas. Lord in heaven.

Apparently, that Irish lassie’s idea of ‘trim’ meant ‘cut around my ears.’ Perfect. Friar Will. That’s what my friends are going to call me. Tomorrow I’m going to the hair salon and I’m going to nail some pissed off theses to the front door. Take that.

I’m not going to back to have it reshaped. I’m afraid if I tell her to reshape it I’ll end up looking worse.

My regret: I’d rather look like Diana Ross than a Dominican Monk. There is no moral to this story. Just don’t get your haircut in Europe…ever. If you don’t walk out with a bowl but, you’ll walk out with a Euromullet. Even worse, some might say.

On the brighter side, I do appreciate Europe for other things. There are some things here I’ll miss. Queen of Tarts. The parks. The Laser-gun noise the crosswalks make when the light turns green. Oops. I’ve run out.

After seeing other parts of Europe last week, I realize I may have come to the wrong city. Barcelona was heaps of fun. Great food. Sangria. Beautiful people. Hookers on the corner of KFC. The works. Florence was picturesque and warm. Rich in history and beautiful art. Cheaper than Dublin. Paris reminded me the most of New York, which made me happy but also sad. Sad because I miss NY so intensely. Paris may have been plus cher, but it was worth it. Great shopping. Delectable food. Fashion forward. I loved it.

But now I’m back in Dublin. Crap shopping. Crap food. And zero sense of style. Pasty white will never be in. I just need to get back to New York, and fast. I miss the shock and jolt of the culture there. My friends are there. My old haunts are there. My life is there. It’s the best city in the world. Not to step on any European toes, but let’s face it; NY is the center of the universe. Dublin is nice to visit. There’s no diversity here. Can’t even buy tortilla chips here. What the hell?

I plan on going back to New York, getting a plate of all-American ribs at Virgil’s Steakhouse, tossing back a Long Island Iced Tea, and fixing my friar-do.

Thanks, Mon. Was that an appropriate blog entry? Was that good craic?

Sayonara.