6.10.06
ST: LN 14 Shotgun Wedding
It had been a quiet week so far, with nothing exciting in the way of a haircut to keep my nights warm. I was halfway through a boring short back and sides and mind the bald spot, when I looked up and saw a young couple walking across the floor to the front desk.
She looked quite pretty, but his hair was shaggy, and the baseball cap did nothing to reassure me that the top was any better than the ends I could see. I have friends who get all upset when they see a garden that hasn’t been looked after, or a car that needs washing, but to me the worst crime is not looking after what you’ve got.
Just ask Mr. Losing-My-Hair here.
I just forgot about the young man and his girlfriend, but about an hour later, I was brought out of my little back room by an argument in the lobby. I came out to see if Joe needed help, and saw him trying to fight off three of the biggest men I had ever seen.
One was the father I supposed, with a gray buzz cut, and the other two must have been his sons. Both had dark hair, kept short but thick. Any one of them could have been a professional fighter, and I didn’t think Joe had a chance against the three of them at once. Apparently, he figured that as well, because I saw him hand the father a key, and the three titans stormed off toward the lift.
I crossed over to see what had happened, and poor Joe was obviously a bit shaken (my hero!)
It seems that the three gladiators were the family of the little girl who had wandered in before. Joe had given the father the key to the room, reasoning that the three could cause more damage to the hotel than his job was worth. I felt sorry for the young boy when the three caught up with him, but I decided it must be karma for not looking after his God-given hair. (After all, God must be a hair fetishist, otherwise why keep the hair on our heads when we evolved from apes?)
After a few more minutes (and some phone calls from distraught guests) the storm troopers finally re-emerged from the lift. One brother had his sister in tow, and the other brother and the father had the boy pinned between them. They threw the keys back toward Joe, and started out of the hotel. Then the father saw my little Barber shop.
He turned back to look at me, and figured I was the barber ( I guess the white outfit gave it away) and dragged his terrified prisoner toward me.
"We need this...pup...prettied up for a wedding. You have time to do something?"
Who was I to argue. We paraded over to the shop, and the boy was thrust into the chair. They didn’t need to hold him, as I think he was so petrified he couldn’t have moved if he had wanted. I just hoped his jeans were thick enough to catch everything if he decided to shit his pants.
"I want you to make this son of a bitch look a bit more like a man, and less like a fucking hippie."
"Shit, Dad, why not just let him go. He ain’t good enough for M’randa, anyhow."
The father didn’t answer, just gave his son a clip on the head. That was the end of the argument as far as I was concerned.
The first thing I did was get rid of the cap. I threw it in the bin, relying on the presence of the three mountains to stop any argument. I then washed his hair, and tried to get some of the tangles out.
I have to say I enjoyed this. At first, I just gave him a neat short back and sides, with a nice crisp part on the left, with his wet hair plastered to his scalp. However, it didn’t please the father.
"Shorter."
So I cut it in shorter. Took the sides down to about a quarter inch and about an inch on top.
"Shorter."
I had to give up on the part, and grabbed the clippers to take it down even further on top. The boy seemed ready to cry, but most of the shock of discovery had worn off by now.
"Here, let me have that thing."
The father grabbed the clippers, and set to on the poor boy’s head. In a few minutes, he had taken the sides down to fuzz and the top not much better.
"There, that’s it. Now, boy, let’s see if you can behave like a man, now that you at least look a bit more like one."
The brothers grabbed their hapless prisoner from the chair, and almost carried him out the door. The father paid me and turned to his daughter.
"You sure he’s what you want?"
"Yes, Daddy."
And so they all left, and the poor boy was going to be initiated into a family that had its own rules. I don’t know whether he would survive or not. Oh, well, that’s karma for you.
She looked quite pretty, but his hair was shaggy, and the baseball cap did nothing to reassure me that the top was any better than the ends I could see. I have friends who get all upset when they see a garden that hasn’t been looked after, or a car that needs washing, but to me the worst crime is not looking after what you’ve got.
Just ask Mr. Losing-My-Hair here.
I just forgot about the young man and his girlfriend, but about an hour later, I was brought out of my little back room by an argument in the lobby. I came out to see if Joe needed help, and saw him trying to fight off three of the biggest men I had ever seen.
One was the father I supposed, with a gray buzz cut, and the other two must have been his sons. Both had dark hair, kept short but thick. Any one of them could have been a professional fighter, and I didn’t think Joe had a chance against the three of them at once. Apparently, he figured that as well, because I saw him hand the father a key, and the three titans stormed off toward the lift.
I crossed over to see what had happened, and poor Joe was obviously a bit shaken (my hero!)
It seems that the three gladiators were the family of the little girl who had wandered in before. Joe had given the father the key to the room, reasoning that the three could cause more damage to the hotel than his job was worth. I felt sorry for the young boy when the three caught up with him, but I decided it must be karma for not looking after his God-given hair. (After all, God must be a hair fetishist, otherwise why keep the hair on our heads when we evolved from apes?)
After a few more minutes (and some phone calls from distraught guests) the storm troopers finally re-emerged from the lift. One brother had his sister in tow, and the other brother and the father had the boy pinned between them. They threw the keys back toward Joe, and started out of the hotel. Then the father saw my little Barber shop.
He turned back to look at me, and figured I was the barber ( I guess the white outfit gave it away) and dragged his terrified prisoner toward me.
"We need this...pup...prettied up for a wedding. You have time to do something?"
Who was I to argue. We paraded over to the shop, and the boy was thrust into the chair. They didn’t need to hold him, as I think he was so petrified he couldn’t have moved if he had wanted. I just hoped his jeans were thick enough to catch everything if he decided to shit his pants.
"I want you to make this son of a bitch look a bit more like a man, and less like a fucking hippie."
"Shit, Dad, why not just let him go. He ain’t good enough for M’randa, anyhow."
The father didn’t answer, just gave his son a clip on the head. That was the end of the argument as far as I was concerned.
The first thing I did was get rid of the cap. I threw it in the bin, relying on the presence of the three mountains to stop any argument. I then washed his hair, and tried to get some of the tangles out.
I have to say I enjoyed this. At first, I just gave him a neat short back and sides, with a nice crisp part on the left, with his wet hair plastered to his scalp. However, it didn’t please the father.
"Shorter."
So I cut it in shorter. Took the sides down to about a quarter inch and about an inch on top.
"Shorter."
I had to give up on the part, and grabbed the clippers to take it down even further on top. The boy seemed ready to cry, but most of the shock of discovery had worn off by now.
"Here, let me have that thing."
The father grabbed the clippers, and set to on the poor boy’s head. In a few minutes, he had taken the sides down to fuzz and the top not much better.
"There, that’s it. Now, boy, let’s see if you can behave like a man, now that you at least look a bit more like one."
The brothers grabbed their hapless prisoner from the chair, and almost carried him out the door. The father paid me and turned to his daughter.
"You sure he’s what you want?"
"Yes, Daddy."
And so they all left, and the poor boy was going to be initiated into a family that had its own rules. I don’t know whether he would survive or not. Oh, well, that’s karma for you.
Labels: LNHB
# posted @ 12:14 pm 
