Monday, January 16, 2012

My Shoulder, Your Shelf

It's not a lack of pride, but a lack of money. I mean, I could blow my money on clothes, haircuts and pedi's, but I think gas is more important. I have no problem with being the disheveled dude at role call. At least I didn't have to ride the bus to get there.

I got a problem with getting haircuts. I won't pay $40 for a trim, so that means most of the time I go to this place called Economy Cuts. For real, that's the name. It's owned by an Asian family and their militant mother always bullies me into a shampoo I didn't want or need. She got that $3 extra bucks out of me every time, that's right, she scared me.

So when I moved, I thought "lets start a new life with a new cost efficient stylist." That's just what I did, I stepped into another low-rent salon and proclaimed that I needed a haircut. Of course, the only person available was Raul, a plucky Asian/Mexican male that was "fabulous" and seemed to purposely rub his junk on my shoulder when he would trim my sideburns.
I get the whole gay thing, do what you feel I guess, but my inner redneck ,I hide daily, is screaming at me to never let this man's junk take a seat on my shoulder ever again. I sat petrified till it was over like a kitten being mounted by a German Shepard.

Well, like a jackass I went back to the place. It wasn't that I missed Raul's manhood on my shoulder, it was the fact I'm a sucker for convenience, so I rolled the dice. In the hopes of drawing a different stylist that didn't have the propensity to perch his or her dick on my shoulder like a blue jay. See what I did there? Even if Raul was a herm, transgender or post-op I still don't like it. Equality.

As I enter, I see a short Hispanic lady sitting in her chair as if she's waiting for the next customer. Raul sees me and he's got on one of those shirts with the samurai picture on it that dudes wear in clubs when they plan on dance-fighting.

I immediately shot like a rocket to the senorita and she happily took me in and protected me from another genital shoulder perching. As I told her what I wanted, the next best thing other than having a dick on my shoulder happened. She stopped me, in mid-sentence, so a fellow employee could come over and translate to her ,in Spanish, what I wanted.

Evidentially, "clean up the back" and "just a little off the sides" in English, translates into "Carve this jerk up and make him look like Charlie Brown." Whatever, still better than Raul's unit on my shoulder I suppose.

Initially I thought I was better off, but when reflecting on the ordeal I really wasn't. As I looked in the mirror, the pale white skin of my scalp shined through stubble is a telling sign that's there's no way in hell a gay dude cut your hair. Raul would of never done this to me. Today I learned it might be best to look past someone's genitals perched on your shoulder and take notice of their mastery in their craft.

At this point "being cool" isn't a necessity. Being "cool for a white guy" is more my aspirations. Bend with the trends I suppose. I plan on making a support group for middle-class males that share this ailment. We'll get this together. Of course, I'd probably end up with a bunch of dudes that dig a good set of "gens" on their shoulder. Never mind. I suppose it's my twig and berries to bear.

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