Monday, September 11, 2017


--> Recently, I went for a haircut at my usual barber shop but didn't have my usual barber. Attila my barber, is a man in his 40's, tall and slightly overweight, but right out of an assassin's phone book from somewhere in the Serbian Empire, with a heavy accent, and a hitman's flair when he cuts. What's a hitman's flair you ask? His arms go into an exaggerated motion as he waves that scissor around, menacing both life and limb as he chops his way to the final neck shave.

His technique for brushing you is to smack the brush against your head then pound it until all the hair stand up, where he then blows them off with his lips.

Ear hair is another story. Using an electric razor, he grinds the machine into your head until he sees scalp, twisting and pushing and pressing the razor as it totally reforms the shape of your ears, your head feeling like it was used as a shuttlecock. If it comes out of your other ear, you know he went too far!

Neck hair? Ha, he just applies the electric razor until it manages to get under the skin, being the only barber to cut hair at the roots, under the skin.

Then a terrifying moment comes. He reaches into the top drawer and extracts a straight-edge razor as I silently pray, not sure if this will be my last haircut or my first scalping.

This day I have Rob, someone new, and when I say new, he is under 25 and intent on having everything in order. He greets me with a handshake and asks how I want my haircut. I tell him, a regular haircut.

"A regular haircut?" He looks at Attila who stands there listening.

"Yeah, a regular haircut, just ask Atilla, he has my records, he did the last one."

They exchange glances once again, and at this time I realize that maybe barbers should keep records.

Well, you know that Rob has been hanging with Atilla because the assault upon my head was pure Atillian. The son-of-a-bitch kept hitting my ear with the stroking of the comb as he trimmed and cut my hair. He seemed to concentrate an awful lot of time on the side where my carotid artery was opened and stitched, leaving me with a scar and soreness, that when touched, hurts.

I was ready to talk, to admit to anything, just give me something to sign and I'll sign, just end the torture, when the final snip, the final push of my head and the final pain was endured. I'm sure Atilla is proud of his assassin!


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