Paranormal Barbers and Barbershops

I have a fixation with barbershops. Every time I pass by one, I instinctively ruffle my hair and think about having a hair cut. There’s something about its typical blue, red and white stripes designs that automatically sends some electrical signal through my neurons which creates an overwhelming desire for a hair cut.

Last two days ago I had my hair cut. And this is because I passed by a barbershop. One thing I must tell you however, I will not, even for a single instant, allow the barber to decide what particular haircut I would have. I had the cruelest mistake in the past to have surrendered to the barber exactly what kind of hair cut he would bestow on my hair:

“What kind of hairstyle sir?”

“Please have your way. Just make me at least five years younger than my actual age”

When the barber had finished what he thought was his masterpiece on my head, lo and behold, I looked exactly like him. My hair now was the exact replica of his hairstyle.

“I did a crew cut on your hair sir. It’s my favorite” this barber said.

I was ash fallen. How could I face the world now? Hesitantly, I had to stay home and hibernate for five years, waiting for my hair to grow. This barber was in the cloning business and I was a willing victim. He clones his hairstyle to those who commit the mistake of saying “just make me at least five years younger…” I actually looked 30 years younger with this crewcut.

To add injury to my misfortune, I could not blame him for the crew cut on my scalp because I gave him the key to this nightmarish result. What I could do, and this I really did, was to give him just a P5.00 tip. I had planned to be generous with him by giving him P20.00. He practically forfeited his fortune of P15.00 for the simple act of beaming his favorite cut on my head.

My nightmare refused to subside. When my dear friends saw my head, I could almost read the lines screaming on their faces “What the!” What is so disconcerting is when after the instantaneous “what the!”, they would clamp their mouths with their hands. Others had the audacity of asking me whether the one who did the murderous haircut was still alive so they could perpetrate a cold and calculated revenge on my behalf.

So I became extra-careful about my haircut. Every single nip of the scissors I would interfere in the activity to have my exact instructions be carried out on my hair.

“No clippers please”

“That’s enough right there”

“Yeah that’s fine but could you please cut a litter over here?”

The barber would be fuming mad. Countless times the film “slasher” would replay itself in my mind as the barber would shave the ends of my hair strands as finishing touches. I could feel the barber entertained this idea too as I could feel his knuckles clutching my neck deeper than usual.

My last haircut about two days ago was fine though. I savor the pleasure of having triumphed over the barber on how to go about my hair. This is a battle I am armed to keep till the last strands of my hair.