Saturday, April 26, 2008

I wake up strange

Saturday, April 26, 2008
Oooh that smell. Can you smell that smell? It's the smell that in times gone by would have been masked by that of cigarette smoke. Stale sweat and fags were always more palatable, I believe, than stale sweat alone.

The beard is gone and the mushroom hair expands out from underneath my hat making me look like a Trading Places train guard. The beard and the hair were a loving couple, well suited in their hugeness and mutual street personality, and the hair cannot now bear to be alone. It wants to end this painfully mocked existence. It wants death by mohawk.

As I had hoped and expected the barber's is empty of customers. I have Data in tow and a half hour window before I need to retrieve Riker from basketball. The two rug-rethinkers are reclined in their barber chairs playing some kind of WWII fighter game on a laptop. They look unenthused at our arrival, but they deign to desist their dogfighting and make a vague attempt at a business-like demeanour. The big news here is that they both have horrible haircuts. One long and straggly, one shorn short, both shitty as a stick that is not without poo.

I place Data within reach on the waiting bench and am eye gestured into Shorty's chair. The eye gesturing is enough to set my highly sensitised stoner bells ringing. This guy, this guy who will now dance about my head with a sharp implement, this guy is goofed. He's got it all going on. The eyes, the slight wobbliness, the repressed smile. He reminds me of me, at Sunday dinner in my mother's in the days before the Bridge Crew.

I sit.

'What can I do ya?'

'I...'

'Would she like a lollipop?'

Does Ratboy shit in the woods? Yes, Data would like a lollipop. So would my smelly stoned coiffmeister but he resists. Straggly, now giggling quietly at a Daily Mail article on The Lisbon Treaty shows no such restraint.

'So, what can I do for ya?'

'I'd like a mohawk, please.'

'A mohawk. Right.'

'Number 4 at the sides and back.'

'Number 4. Right.'

He begins. His ideas as to the masterpiece that he intends sculpting out of this mass of hair that fuzzes up in front of him are to ebb and flow over the next twenty minutes. I have asked for one cut, he suggests another to which, in my fear and desire to get the fuck out of there, I quickly agree. And then he creates a third which bears no relationship to either of the first two.

I get out alive. Two ears, no major lacerations. Data is unpoisoned. I have considerably less hair. And, thankfully, I own a hat.


Today's Title

12 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

Medbh said...

So what cut did he give you?
Are you shorn as a sheep in that post-Matrix look?

Twenty Major said...

I hope it's cornrows and braids.

Ultimate Wigger.

common law said...

Your new hair is lovely. Very 'Skins'. I think you're mixing modern fashion up with drug abuse, old man.

V said...

ie.youtube.com/watch?v=XU6ci0hoNzM

Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

I was a fan of your wild locks so I don't know how to react to this news. Your fabby wordiness does not seem to have resided all Samson-like in your hair though, being as how you still have it. So it must be some other secret strength that was left strewn on the barber's floor. I won't ask - a fellow's secret strengths are between him and his maker.

Kim Ayres said...

Photo? Why no photo?

fatmammycat said...

What Kim said, this needs photographic evidence.

savannah said...

*sigh* ok, i can deal with the no-beard look, i can deal with the shorn locks, but sugar, i must agree with kim: why no photo? you can do one of those full on block out the eyes/maintain anonymity head shots!
xoxo

Sam, Problem-Child-Bride said...

I 4th the call for a photo.

gimme a minute said...

Medbh:
Actually I my look is a lot less ovine now than before the cut.

Twenty Major:
I'm a black lesbian, I have no need for the wigger look.

Common Law:
Great, thanks.

V:
Is there anything that you can't link with drunken celebrities?

That was pretty funny, though.

Sam:
I wouldn't worry, it never takes more than ten days for my hair to return to it's natural Garfunkel fuzz-ball state.

Kim:
It's all about the mystery retention.

Fatmammycat:
The retention of mystery and my not being arsed.

Savannah:
What am I, some kind of tech wizard?

Sam:
And I fourth the refusal.

conortje said...

Barbers and hairdressers are pure evil. Them and bank managers - in the same league.

Conan Drumm said...

I fifth it! A pic from the back at least... go on.



...eh CL, why not sneak a shot of Mr Bashful and post it for us?

 
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