Barber Shop Blues

I've got to look corporate for my interview tomorrow. I've been letting the hair grow to a nice hippy mop, and I was sad to see it go. So I find this little barber shop, and sit there and read Men's Health as there's no penthouse forums to browse.

This barber is fucking slow, but after waiting for a half an hour, was I really going to leave?

Years pass, governments are formed, generations of mankind pass before my eyes. I'm reading relationship advice, from guys who obviously have no clue. I hear razors clipping in the background.

I'm reading about how to survive a break-up. My strategy for the longest time has been to avoid relationships at all costs. Apparently if I were to meet a girl, and we were to become a hot item, and then she dumped me (no fuck that it's my blog I dump her) I should completely erase her from my life. Take all of her belongings down to good will or have a mutual friend take them back to her. And I shouldn't let her talk me into "being friends" because if she wasn't cool with me, after all of that time, then I should move on. I should erase that desktop picture of us in Costa Rica, and look up other hot girls in bikinis on the Internet. I should get out and go to the gym, and not drink my problems away. I should get on with my life.

Who are these men that need to read this article I'm wondering? How small is there cock? Why do they feel they need to define themselves through women? Girls are great don't get me wrong. I've always been a big fan. But how close can you really get to someone? Don't they know that they're going to die alone? You can't become one with another person, and I'm pretty sure that love doesn't exist. Don't they know this? It seems to me that this magazine is pretty girly. Maybe I should be writing articles for a similar publication. Telling men to not let women claim them. To not let the upswing from the women's movement sweep them from their throne. To eat raw meat sometimes because it's good for you. To do some fucking push-ups. To continue being men like our fathers were and their fathers were. To walk tall and carry that big stick. To stop taking penis enhancement medication, and how to impress girls with the giant bulge that is your ego and your confidence. Tell them that being completely buff and ripped isn't how men are supposed to look. That self image starts in the mind, and that when you break up with a girl, that you obviously were co-dependant on, that you should bang her sister and or room mate.

Then I read yet another article giving advice on how to meet that girl. The girl that just broke your heart on page 49. Well we find out how to meet her on page 67. There was a lot of good advice in that column, if you want to trick a girl, make her think you're a man, and then wonder why girls always leave you. I've got an idea as to why they leave you, because you put out this big front, but then you're not a man underneath it all. Because men don't read magazines to get advice on meeting women. Because the only time real men ever read a magazine without centerfolds is when they're in the slowest barber shop ever. How much hair did this guy have when he came in I wonder?

So I finally hear the clipper stop in the background. And 7,000 scissor clips later, it's my turn. I wonder if I've already missed my interview tomorrow as I sink into the chair and get tucked in. For the entire time I was waiting for my "world's longest hair-cut" not a soul had entered the shop. As the barber starts slicing my mop, this dark skinned "male" enters. He sits in a chair very close to the one I'm getting my hair cut in. And he, just sits there. I want to scream at him, "hey dood it's going to be hours maybe you ought to pick up one of them there magazines." But what does this Nancy Boy do? He sits there the entire time, and watches me get my hair cut. Which was kind of weirding me out. Then to make matters worse the barber keeps turning my chair towards his. And this flint won't stop locking eyes with me. It was getting very awkward, except not for him. As if my hair cut was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. I'm obviously, to anyone who understands the subtleties of body language telling him to fuck off. But he just kept staring. I mean come on dood.

Am I un-normal? Would that weird anyone else out? Having to sit there three feet from somebody, who's staring at you get a hair-cut? Even if I was the best looking thing in the world to him, that still wouldn't be normal would it? And if he was seeking my number, he was going about it all the wrong ways. (ha)

Anyway somebody get back to me with a similar story to make me laugh or something.