Excuse me, but your boobs are in my face. Last night I went for a haircut. I want to look snazzy for the weekend, for my birthday. I have had my share of haircuttress woes in Calgary since leaving Regina and Tracy behind. (Tracy being my ex-haircuttress.) Haircuttress. At first, I was coming home to Regina often enough that I could continue to get Tracy to cut my hair. It’s hard to find a good haircuttress. Or haircutter. Either one. Leah hates when I say haircuttress.
After it became evident that I wasn’t going to be home and I would need to get a haircut, I believe I first went to a haircuttress school and, actually, it was a guy who then must be a haircutter. He did a fine job of cutting my hair; however, I think it took him over an hour to do it. Tracy, I think, would usually take at least 30 minutes but that was mostly because we talked the whole time. So hair school was out.
The next was also another male. He was at a hair salon in a mall. The crazy thing about this guy was that he mumbled worse than anyone I have ever heard. I honestly couldn’t understand anything he said. I am not exaggerating. What was worse is that he would mumble for a minute and a half and then laugh at some joke he said. I had no clue. It was probably the most awkward haircut I have ever had. Plus, it was expensive. At least $40 and for how much hair I have it’s ridiculous. Maybe for the next video blog I should do an impression.
The next I went to a little barber shop near my house. It’s sort of like… I can’t remember the generic place in Regina—Super Cuts? It’s $20 for a haircut, which is still more than Tracy charged me, but it’s Calgary. The unfortunate thing is that the haircuttress at this small place smoked. Nothing like getting up close and personal with a smoker. Second, I happened to pop-in—because you can do the pop-in at this place—to see if I could get a cut. My regular haircuttress wasn’t around, but this woman says to another Do you want to cut his hair? The other says, I guess so, but I am not washing it. Leah happened to be with me and let a little bit loose on them for their attitude. I got my hair cut. It wasn’t nice. That other lady was also a smoker. Yuck.
Which pretty much brings you up to speed until yesterday’s haircut. Leah and I went for a walk last weekend and happened to be walking down Centre St and we see a salon specifically for men. Great! A new place to try. We walk up and they have their rates posted. $32 for a cut. Higher than the cheap, smoker place, but less than the mall. Plus, its was classy looking. And in the future I could get massages and manicures and pedicures. Classy. I joked to Leah, I bet it’s a bunch of girls with huge boobs (because it’s just for men and this is Calgary and that is what Calgary is like). I got there last night and it was an attractive, younger woman with huge boobs and cleavage to next week.
Let me ask you—what the hell am I supposed to do in this situation? I am not really interested in your cleavage or your low cut shirt, but I am interested how you acquired this rack and if you have a sugar daddy or did you win the lottery? It wasn’t like I was looking for them. I was being smothered in breasts. Look, I won’t tip you more because your boobs are hanging out, but you happened to be very nice and friendly so I will.
Anyways, I told her she could cut my hair short and I am about a millimetre off of having a buzz cut. It’s fine. Short hair suits me, she says.
Well, until the next haircut, I love it when you call me big poppa.
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