little place over on Rome’s Tiber River called Teste.” “Don’t go any further. I know that place.
Everybody thinks it’s going to be something special and exclusive, but it’s really a dump.”
“We’re going to go to see the Vatican and maybe get to see the Pope.” “That’s rich,” laughed the hairdresser.
“You and a million other people trying to see him. He’ll look the size of an ant. Boy, good luck on this lousy trip of yours.
ou’re going to need it. “
A month later, the woman came in for a hairdo. The hairdresser asked her about her trip to Rome.
“It was wonderful,” explained the woman, “not only were we on time in one of Continental’s brand new planes,
but it was overbooked, and they bumped us up to first class. The food and wine were wonderful,
and I had a handsome 28-year-old steward who waited on us hand and foot. And the hotel was great!
They’d just finished a $5 million remodeling job, and now it’s a jewel, the finest hotel in the city.
They, too, were overbooked, so they apologized and gave us the owner’s suite at no extra charge!”.
“Well,” muttered the hairdresser, “that’s all well and good, but I know you didn’t get to see the Pope.”
“Actually, we were quite lucky, because as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder,
and explained that the Pope likes to meet some of the visitors, and if we’d be so kind as to step into his
private room and wait, the Pope would personally greet us. Sure enough, five minutes later, the Pope walked
through the door and shook my hand! I knelt down and he spoke a few words to me.”
“Oh, really! What’d he say?”
He said: “Who fucked up your hair?”