I get my haircut at a Mexican American barbershop in my neighborhood. My hairdresser is a 50 year-old stylish woman.
She keeps her combs in a coffee mug shaped like a woman’s breast that says “Chupame.” When I keep my eyes open I find they inevitably wander towards the titty mug, so I mostly keep them closed.
I relax when my head gets touched especially when they straight razor the neck. Three of us were getting haircuts although the barbershop was oddly muted except for an old school TV on low volume. Rachael Ray sounded comfortingly far away as she apparently demonstrated temporary tattoos are the hip new Easter Egg decoration.
Suddenly, terrifyingly, I felt the straight razor plow a row on the top of my head. I jerked opened my eyes and I saw it. My hairdresser had ripped me a line. She then took something like 17 cellphone pictures of it.