I dig my haircutters. The minute I walk in the door, I can hear the electric clippers humming. I'm taken instantly to a chair. Each cutter has the subtlety of a steel worker mixed with the personal charm of a dominatrix.
her: what guard?
me: I think it's the longest one.
her: 8 or 4?
me: well, I'm not sure. what do you think?
her: it's your hair.
me: 4, I guess.
And before my butt has time to warm the chair, I'm outta there. No chit-chat. No exchange of pleasentries. Nada. Just a damn regular haircut.
« Previous post / Next post »
Hi! You're reading a single post on a weblog by Paul Bausch where I share recommended links, my photos, and occasional thoughts.