everything sucks

For years, I’ve been going to the same stylist to get my hair cut. But I’ve always felt a little weird about doing it. I mean, there I am, surrounded by women gossiping about the latest Hollywood dirt. It really makes me question my sexuality. That’s why I decided to go to a good old fashioned barber for my next haircut. And what an experience it was.

I chose this place just down the street from me: “Ye Old Tyme Barber Shoppe.” It was like stepping back into time, back to the days when life was simple, and people couldn’t spell.

I climbed up into that big vinyl-upholstered chair and placed my feet up on the metal foot rest. The barber covered me with a fresh white cloth and tied it behind my neck. I said, “Give me The Works,” and he was off.

He took out his scissors and started snipping away. I asked him where the electric trimmer was, and he said he liked to do things the old fashioned way. How cool is that?

While he was cutting off my hair, we talked about baseball and politics. Since I knew very little about either subject, it was a rather short conversation. But it really didn’t matter. He was too busy concentrating on making me look good.

Next came the shaving. A thick foam was mixed in a steel bowl with a horsehair brush. He massaged the foam into my skin and then pulled out a straight edge razor. I asked him if he had some other means in which to shave me. Perhaps one of those Gillette MACH3 razors? He chuckled and told me not to worry. He was an expert at his craft and he liked to do things the old fashioned way.

I’ll have to admit, he really did a great job. Not only was my face as smooth as a freshly shaved baby, he didn’t even nick me once. I was so relieved. I sat up to leave, thinking he was done, but he put his hand on my chest and stopped me. “I thought you said you wanted the works?” I assured him that I did. But what else was there to do?

“Teeth whitening,” he replied.

Teeth whitening? Apparently, in the old days, barbers not only cut hair, but whitened teeth. It sounded a little odd, but I figured, what the heck. I rested my head back on the seat and opened my mouth to let him go to work.

To my horror, he took out this crude looking metal instrument and started to attack my teeth like he was scraping rust off of metal. I protested, but he said this was how they used to do it in the old days. So while it was extremely painful, it was also somewhat fascinating. Unfortunately, the pain was so excruciating that I passed out after about ten minutes.

When I regained consciousness, I found myself in a rather unsettling situation: my arms and legs were bound to the chair with leather straps, and my sleeves were rolled up. I looked over and saw the barber sharpening his straight edge razor on a strip of leather. I asked him what the hell was going on, and he told me not to worry. This was the way they did it in the old days. I asked him what the fuck he was talking about, and his reply made my heart stop: “blood letting.”

Blood letting? He must be joking. Unfortunately, he was not. He insisted that I had evil spirits in my body and that a good old fashioned blood letting was the only way to release them. I told him that I really didn’t mind the evil spirts and that we had a mutual understanding, the spirits and I. But he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He handed me a metal barbershop pole. “Grip this tightly,” he said, in his creepy old-man voice. It would help the blood flow faster. I said I didn’t want the blood to flow at all, and I pulled at the straps.

“Hold still, you fucking pansy!” he growled.

“Look, how ’bout I give you an extra ten bucks for your time and we call it a day?”

“This is for your own good.”

“And I appreciate the offer. But I’m really quite happy with the blood I have.”

“You’re not gripping the pole tight enough! This is gonna get messy.”

I looked around for anyone to help me, but I was alone.

He told me I may feel a little sting at first, but once the evil was released from my body, I would feel a whole lot better. My heart started pounding. I struggled to pull my hands out of the straps.

“Hold still!” he yelled.

“Get the fuck away from me, you psycho!” I screamed like a little girl.

“The spirits are taking over. We need to work fast.”

Just then, the door swung open and two cops came bursting in with their guns drawn.

“Drop the blade, Johnny!” one of them commanded with an oddly cliché Irish accent.

“You don’t understand. I’m doing him a favor.”

“You’re not doing me a favor,” I butted in.

He put the blade to my neck. “You stay out of this!”

“Come on, Johnny. I don’t want to have to call the morgue again,” said the cop.

“Again?” I cried. (He’s right. I am a pansy.)

“Come any closer and I’ll take his fucking head off!” the psycho threatened.

Around this time, I started to wonder if perhaps the salon I used to go to wasn’t as bad as I remembered. Not only did they wash my hair, but if I arrived early enough, they threw in a free massage.

Now, here I was, strapped down to a chair with my gums bleeding and a straight edge razor at my neck — not exactly the nostalgic experience I imagined.

Suddenly, the backdoor to the barbershop swung open and Johnny turned to see who was coming. Blam! A shot rang out, and Johnny collapsed, clutching onto that barbershop pole with all his strength.

The cops released me from the chair and called an ambulance to try to save Johnny. But it was too late. Johnny died that day on the barbershop floor from a gunshot wound to the chest. Which is really quite a shame. I mean, sure, he was a homicidal maniac and all. But my sideburns have never looked better.