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Spunking in the face of society since 2008
Feel free to have a poke around the mind of a madman

Friday, 3 July 2009

The haircut with the unfamiliar Barber

I walk in, I sit down. I immediately stand back up awkwardly, as i have been instructed to take a seat in the adjacent barber's chair.

'what can i do - a - for you sir?' the unfamiliar barber asks.

"er, number three at the sides mate, not too much off the top", i say, deliberately emphasizing the latter instruction.

"Ok mate- number three at the sides, not -a - much off the top," he says.

"Yeah thanks", I reply. "just not too much off the top".

I sink into the chair, paranoid and anxious. This man has the potential to make me look like an absolute prick. Being the owner of a cuboidal shaped head, complete with a throbbing six pack above the eyebrows, means any severe alteration to my hair line could result in a aesthetically abhorrent disaster.

I glance in the mirror, He glances at my reflection. Should I make conversation? Do i watch what hes doing? How do people behave in this barber shop? Probably best not to worry about it.

Gradually, yet severely, he is eating away at my hair with his butchering blades.

I become more anxious. Perhaps a number three is too short. Now that he has already sheered off the sides, my FA cup ears have become exposed: previously submerged behind buffon like tufts of hair.

The Barber detects my despairing look in the mirror. "Don't worry, it will look - a - nice," he suggests, in what i think is a Cyprian accent.

Fuck. Not only am I paranoid, he can sense it. I am a living, sweating paranoid mess. After attempting to to start a conversation about football to which he responds with complete disinterest, I give up any attempt to pursue a policy of detente. We are sworn enemies. I must just wallow in aggrieved, wholly awkward silence.

The top is being eaten into like an obese American child devouring the contents of a milkshake machine directly from the tank. Fuck. This is crucial. If the right amount is taken off, I will look relatively swarve. Half an inch too much however, and my forehead will become exemplified by the fact there is no longer a significant island of hair aloft its menacing protrusion to distract viewers from it.

"Not too much off the top mate" I remind the barbering bastard, clenching the steel arms of chair tighter.

"Don't -a- worry mate," The Cypriot prick replies. But its too late. Hes fucked it. I look like fucking Simon Cowell.

As he brushes my neck down, I wait for him to present the mirror behind my back of my neck so i can visually appreciate the damage this shit back and sides has impacted onto my ego.

"Ok?" He asks.
"Cheers dickhead," I think.

Why do they even bother to ask? Its not as if he can do anything about it if i correctly inform him the haircuts an absolute pile of shit. He cant glue the hair back onto my fucking head. My stormy look is more obviously apparent than a eight inch penis glued onto the end of somebody's nose, and the smirky look a waiting customer gives me doesnt help either. The region of my forehead looks as though it could span across the entire russian continent.

"Eight pounds please", he asks. I give him a tenner, reluctantly telling him to keep the change. Ten fucking quid. The going exchange rate for any individual eager to transform their appearance into a potato headed solider serving in the Vietnamese war.

Hang on now. Calm down. Maybe I'm just being a pessimistic, self conscious muppet. I take one last look in the mirror before i exit the shop. It's not even that bad. Perhaps a bit of hair gel will sort it out.

"SHIT HAIR CUT MATE!", a builder screams from a passing lorry as I step outside the shop. Fuck. My over exposed five head glows a lobstery red.

I cant even wear a hat to cover it up. I look like a prick in hats.

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