Getting my hair did

I'm about to plan my exit strategy on another long day at the office to watch the NCAA men's basketball final. For the second year in a row, I'm leading my office pool and yes, for a second year in a row, everyone in the office is accusing me of cheating.

After all, I do organize the pool. And I am the sports writer. C'mon, those other office hacks didn't stand a chance.

But it reminded of that blissful day in March when the tournament started up and the Madness took hold. I coincidentally had the day off and there was a full slate of basketball to watch on TV. Naturally, I made my way to the bar just before noon for tip-off.

But this wasn't your typical drink-and-watch-sports-all-day extravaganza. I brought my part-time hair stylist with me and she got to work on my dome piece. No scissors needed. Just a few small rubber bands and a little patience.

The good people at the Dog House Pub let me get my hair did while watching the games and this was the final product.

I don't think the lovely Jenna knew what she was getting into. Apparently, you're not supposed to wash your hair before it gets twisted up and she said that made the job harder. I think she did a good job and I paid for her services with a burrito and a few beers.

I haven't cut my hair in over a year. The barber shops on St. Thomas are comical and I've been holding out in protest ever since I was forced to point at a picture on a poster so the Dominican barber (who barely spoke English) could figure out how I wanted it cut.

Unfortunately, all the pictures on the poster were of black gentlemen. So there may have been a conflict in communication between us. He butchered me and I haven't let anyone touch my hair since.

Eventually, I have to get my hair cut. But not after shaving a fake bald spot on the top of my head and then styling a mullet for a few weeks. These hair modifications would only play out for the simple reason of hilarity.

Stay tuned...

Island Irish power

As I recklessly rifled through four sets of NCAA brackets and sat at the Hooter's bar, an unusual couple came up to me for no reason at all.

It was the first day of the tourney and it was St. Patty's Day, which can be sort of a perfect storm for lunatics at the bar.

The lady had red hair and could not stop talking about how Irish she was -- "my father was this and that and my grandfather is buried at this random Irish graveyard that everyone is supposed to know" -- that kind of crap.

Her husband was pretty hilarious. He was decked out in Irish threads and even sported some St. Patty's Day pajama pants I was quite fond of (I later asked him if I could buy them and he declined my offer).

I got him to pose for a picture with Tiffany Reddick. When Reddick is not slinging suds at Hooter's, she's a USVI Olympic hopeful in boxing and she has a mean right overhand.

Anyways, I was trying to ignore them until they decided to buy me a shot of whiskey -- it's 12:15 p.m. and the games just tipped off mind you -- so I decided to halfway tilt my body in their direction and humor them briefly.

"Yeah, so I'm doing the Irish and black thing," the husband said to me.

"Oh yeah, how about we drink some Black and Tans," I respond. "That's a good Irish drink and I've got a decent beach complexion."

He agreed. But we were disappointed when I ordered. You would think that with such a vast array of adult beverages in stock, Hooter's would have more than enough Bass Ale to go around.

"Black and Tan ... what the hell is that?" the blond bimbo behind the bar said. "Is that like some Irish thing?"

"Indeed, it is," I said. "Bass Ale mixed with a stout."

"What's a stout?" she said back.

"Unbelievable," I muttered to myself, before I swiveled my bar stool back around to face my favorite interracial St. Patty's Day couple.

Instead of a Black and Tan, I bought them back a shot of whiskey and it looked like that would be enough for the redhead for a while. They told me they had been bar hopping since the early morning and apparently, were the only two members of a non-existent bar crawl that came through the area.

I watched the early games with limited interruption from the black Leprechaun, who gave me basket-by-basket updates of the games I had the most money on.

I paid my bill, said my good byes and went back into the office to finish up a few things. Later on, I was driving to a UVI basketball game and saw them stumbling around the waterfront in a drunken haze of some sort. Only on St. Patty's Day, I thought. Only on St. Thomas.