Never get your haircut during happy hour

When the lady asked where my barber was, I probably should have left right then instead of taking a seat. He was down a couple of doors she was told and she was off to find him. I sat down thinking I was making a mistake. Down a couple doors was a bar. I remember how I thought he smelled of gin the last time I got a haircut. I guess I was right.

I had heard the guy loved his drink as much as I but at least I don’t work after hitting the sauce. My mind raced a bit. How long has he been in the bar? Was he doing shots? Can I pay him with a twelver?

I swear to God he came back into the barber shop clutching a bottle of Miller Lite. That scared me a bit but I didn’t have the fortitude to leave. I slunk into the chair trying to gauge how much he had. He didn’t smell of booze which seemed good and he was kind of hyper. I tried to ease the situation by apologizing for taking him away from happy hour. Not a good idea.

He was very talkative as he dug the shears into the back of my head. Guess he wanted to get a closer cut. He yapped on as hair fell away. I tried to steal peaks at the mirror to see how bad I was getting butchered but couldn’t get a great view. He mentioned to me he is closing the shop next month. He has lost money over the last year and has decided to go underground. You can call and set an appointment but his shop will not always be open. And he will only take cash. Easier to avoid taxes that way.

When I got home I inspected my melon to see how bad it might be. Turns out it was a good cut. At least that is what I keep telling myself.