It is now officially a Daryl Trifecta

Q: Why do these clippers suck?
A: Daryl.

I had my Old English midterm today. I have been sitting at the living room table, frantically absorbing the text on roughly eight billion handouts while surrounded by my amethyst-and-gold runes and fragrant candles for the past twenty-four hours. I called it my "circle of power," and it actually helped to a) keep me focused and b) ward everyone else off. ._. (I call that a success.)

Because of my hands, my prof agreed to let me come in 20 minutes early to get a head start on the exam. I head over to our scheduled meeting point this morning and spend twenty minutes sitting in the hall listening to Pink Martini because he completely forgot about me. Luckily, I managed to get the exam done in the required time--barely. I had two minutes to go. After that I recuperated in the science cafe with an enormous mocha and some Plato. Finally, I made it through Ancient Cities, eve though my professor was so sick he could barely hear. (Is it bad that I want to cover him in blankets and make him tea and soup?)

Okay. Trek through the rain. I get home, I collapse on the couch. I shut my brain down and enjoy my well-deserved lethargy.

And then Daryl comes home. He has finally decided his hair is disgusting (A fact which I have been trying to convince him of for the past month) and wants me to buzz his hair. Alright, fine, but we have no clippers. He wants me to go get them with him. I don't particularly want to move. He decides to take Matt instead.

Does anyone remember Toulouse, the man who lived in my closet and would pop out at intervals to yell "MISTAAAAKE" at me, tug at his pants, bow, and head back in? (I'd link, but it's secreted away in a pile of 2002 emo drivel.) I miss him. Sending two boys to do my job is not adequate, and I paid for it later.

He comes back with a set of clippers the size of my hand. Not only that, but the clippers have a name. They are called "The Peanut." (If that's not foreshadowing...) Daryl swears up and down that "the ladies at the store said they were one of the best clippers they had." (Note to self: attack ladies with "The Peanut" later.)

I decide to give them a chance and attack his head with them. Does the hair come off a la V for Vendetta or G.I. Jane? Oh no. Does the hair not move at all? Yes. I am brushing his hair with "The Peanut." It can't even keep buzzing when his hair goes through it. Daryl either has hair made out of woven steel, or these clippers suck. And I am comparing them to a set of clippers one of my friends found abandoned in a cabinet, covered under a thick layer of cat hair and dust.

A word to the wise: It violates a major law of the universe if bought objects suck more than found objects. Daryl's hair quickly became a black hole of evil, and as "The Peanut" tears its way through his hair, it begins to pull at his scalp in an attempt to have it all. "I AM ON FIRE," he finally screams, and I realize another tactic is needed.

To get the clippers to work I had to first cut his hair short with scissors, which felt great on my hands, let me tell you. After that they started working part-time. After a good 45 minutes of work, we had made progress, of a sort:

(Side note: see how my nails and tongue stud match perfectly? Yeah.)

All that hair on him? I put that there vengefully.

Luckily, with my resourcefulness, we managed to salvage his hairdo, and he now looks quite nice. The general consensus is that "The Peanut" is not really a clipper per se, but some sort of masochist's vibrator.