this ain't my barber
Ah, yes. A trip to the Town Barber.
“The usual,” I say to him.
He gets his tools. Ancient. Bigger than you’d expect. Hand made Iron Age shit. “Looks like we’re going to need the leeches,” he tells me, in a distracted, but matter-of-fact tone.
“Mmmmmm,” I affirm.
“You’ve got more than a colon problem this time. I’m going to need to heal up this giant ring of fire, this Fisher’s Hook, and there appears to be a rather run-down mobil home park taking up space on your gooch area. What you been using to wipe, sage brush?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t laugh. “I have this extra asshole out back, on ice” he tells me, “that I took off a dead seventy year old guy a few years ago. You might be better off with that. His crack-skin was far more resilient than this can of strained peaches you’re using got right now. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna need my Ass Auger and my bigger Crack Trowels.” I’m going to have to tip him a little more than I do for the standard hair cut, I’m guessing.
