Sheldon's orderly world is thrown into a tailspin when his regular barber, Mr. D'Onofrio, is in the hospital with a coma when Sheldon's regularly scheduled appointment arrives. He won't let anyone else in the area cut his hair since he believes Mr. D'Onofrio is the only one who can since he has all Sheldon's haircut records from Texas (or so Sheldon's mother told him). Even after his regularly scheduled haircut appointment is one day overdue, Sheldon can't stand it as he can hear his hair growing out of control. If Sheldon can't get Mr. D'Onofrio out of his coma, he will either have to let someone else cut his hair, or live with longer than usual hair. But what's worse, Sheldon believes that total anarchy will ensue since world order is based on his own personal order. The result of not getting is haircut makes Sheldon reevaluate his life plan. Meanwhile, Howard is scheduled to begin his astronaut training. Howard finds that the anticipation of the excitement of the training is ...Written by
At one point while talking to Bernadette about astronaut training, Wolowitz makes a reference about attending sunset Sabbath Services at "Camp Hess Kramer". This is a real camp operated by Wilshire Boulevard Temple in Los Angeles and has been in existence since the fifties. See more »
In "The Friendship Contraction (#5.15)" Sheldon says that he needs to go to Supercuts to get his haircut. However, in "The Werewolf Transformation (#5.18)" he says that he goes to a barber shop to get his haircuts. See more »
I'm just going to run to the store and get a few things; I'll pick you up when you're done.
Okay. I-I like it a little better when you stay, but all right.
Hello. I'm here for my haircut with Mr. D'Onofrio.
I'm sorry. Uncle Tony's in hospital. He's pretty sick.
Oh, dear. Mr. D'Onofrio is in the hospital. Why do these things always happen to me?
I could cut it for you.
You're not Mr. D'Onofrio. I get my haircut by Mr. D'Onofrio.
[...] See more »
CHUCK LORRE PRODUCTIONS, #186 ZEN NOIR (REDUX) The hardest journey is the one which leads to the truth. I didn't know that when I began my little midnight ramble. If I had, I probably would've stayed home, drank myself stupid and watched Ferguson until the big nod closed my book for the day. But there I was, standing outside her house, looking up at her bedroom window while a cold rain whipped me in the face like I'd somehow pissed it off. I could see her kissing him. I could see her as she slowly descended beneath the window frame. I could see him too. He just stood there smiling, like the canary who got eaten by the cat. But then a funny thing happened while I was dancing the voyeuristic bebop in my terribly trendy, bright-green plastic shoes. I found myself thinking that the aching loneliness I was feeling had its roots in something much deeper than being eighty-sixed to a one bedroom efficiency in the marina by a dame who digs deep into the degrading bang-bang in order to make up for an emotionally distant father. No, this was the pain of existential separateness. The false sense that one is fundamentally apart from people, things, life, the whole damn universe. In a blinding flash I realized that what I was really experiencing was the result of a life-long indoctrination by a culture which elevates individualism above all else, thus causing a soul-crushing sense of aloneness which demands over and under the counter medication, the constant distraction of sporting events, TV, major motion pictures and a pop-tabloid religion based on celebrity worship/crucifixion. Of course this epiphany did not deter me from pulling the roscoe out of my fanny pack and going into the house to TC of B. As I crossed up the stairs I could feel my wet tube socks squishing through the little round holes of my polyurethane crocs. See more »