Every day I pass a little beauty salon called Tan and Curl. It has been there, down about halfway to Hwy 70 along the college road, since at least 1990, when I started teaching at the college. I've never been inside it nor known of anyone that has.
When I ascended to the mighty chair of my department, the two former chairs fashioned a crown of thorns for me to symbolize my new power; they made it out of hawthorn, and on one of the thorns they stuck a fake gift certificate to Tan and Curl.
To this day, every time I pass Tan and Curl I think of corn chips.