Haircut

Getting a haircut as a male is never fun. I either look like a butch lesbian or a young Adolf Hitler. Prior to getting my haircut my hair looks the bomb, as if to defend itself and warn against getting a trim. The waiting isn’t fun either. I feel anxious. I’m sweating. Flashbacks of being told to wait after class race through my head. I can’t explain why I’m like this but once I’m in the hot-seat and the small talk begins, apprehension blows away like tumbleweed in the wind. My head is being jerked from one side to the other like a joystick.

I swear barbers fuck about once the hair is wet, giving me a distinctly Victorian look. The best part is when he brings the shaver to the back of my neck, I’m willing him to go lower and lower to scratch my back but he doesn’t pick up on my telepathy (shame because back scratching is orgasmic). For only the second in my life there was no mirror shot of the back of my head. No nod of approval from me. At the time I didn’t really notice because I was sweaty profusely but it is a bit odd. Ultimately I’m pleased with the result, a solid 7/10.

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