Trip to Rome

A woman was at her hairdresser’s getting her hair styled for a trip to Rome with her husband.  She mentioned the trip to the hairdresser, who responded:

"Rome?  Why would anyone want to go there?  It’s crowded and dirty...  You’re crazy to go to Rome...  So how are you getting there?"

"We’re flying with Continental," was the reply.  "We got a great rate!"

"Continental?" exclaimed the hairdresser.  "That’s a terrible airline.  Their planes are old, their flight attendants are ugly, and they’re always delayed.  So... where are you staying in Rome?"

"We’ll be at this exclusive little place right on the Tiber River called the Hotel Dei Mellini."

"Don’t go any further.  I know that place.  Everybody thinks it’s gonna be something special and exclusive, but it’s really a dump."

"We’re going to go to 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.  You’re going to need it."

Shortly after she returned, the woman ran into her hairdresser at the grocery store.  "So how was your trip?" the hairdresser asked.

"It was wonderful," enthused the woman.  "Not only did we take off right on schedule 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 me 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.  But they were also overbooked, so as an apology they gave us the Presidential Suite at no extra charge!"

"Well," muttered the hairdresser, "that’s all well and good, but I know you didn’t get a good view of the Pope."

"Actually, we were quite lucky, because as we toured the Vatican, a Swiss Guard tapped me on the shoulder, and quietly explained that on rare occasions the Pope likes to greet some of the visitors personally, so if I’d be so kind as to step into his private room and wait, the Pope would grant me an audience.

"And sure enough, five minutes later, the Pope walked through the door and shook my hand!  I knelt down and he touched my head and spoke a few words to me."

"Oh really, what’d he say?"

He said:  "Who the fuck did your hair?"

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