On Hell being other people

Standing in the barber shop for 45 minutes now. It's a Podunk little town, with 1 barber for 20,000 people. I can't get here in my preferred time slots, as I'm pretty sure they don't cut hair at two in the morning, at least not for drunk people.

So here I am with the rest of the sheep. I remember a time when I never hit the rush. I kept my hours out of phase with the rest of humanity, zigging when the sign said zag. I lived in the city and worked in the suburbs. I went to lunch around 4 in the afternoon. And I never, ever went out on weekends.

Life was good, and the lines were short. But a 9-to-5 life puts an end to all that. Why did I have to grow up and get a real job?

One thing I don't get, though: I've been here for an hour and a half, and there is nobody behind me. Was I really the absolutely last person who needed a haircut?