Just Call Me Delilah

I used to think people told me their secrets because I was running my fingers through their hair. “There’s something Sampson and Delilic about that;” I thought, “…a secret disclosed through the changing lengths of hair.” I’ve always thought, therapists should get licensed in Cosmetology. It’s basically a license to touch people - professionally, of course. I’m convinced they’d get a lot less bullshit from their patients if it were legal to touch them.

Since I’ve moved to NJ, my clientele consists of - Rob (and Matt, my historically best “tipper”). But I’m a little confused because so far the only scandalous thing Rob has confessed is that his family ate pasta at Thanksgiving. Now that is just crazy AND wrong - being Italian is no excuse. But still… it’s not the usual kind of shocking story I’m used to hearing. I’ve gotten pretty good at keeping a straight face when someone says something like “I really don’t like men... even though I used to be one.”

I think it’s an east-coast thing – don’t even dish the dirt with your stylist.

But he’s bound to give it up eventually, right? There’s only so much Delilic power one can take before the confessions begin. I’ll keep you posted. That’s the good thing about a Cosmetologist without a license in Psychiatry – we’ve taken no vows to silence.

Give it up Rob!