Hit Me While I’m Down. A Short Story About Me & My Barber

A couple of months ago, I went to the hair salon for a trim. I use the term “Hair Salon” in the loose sense of the term, by which I really mean “very inexpensive hole-in-the-wall barber shop across the street from my house.”

I’ve been going to this barber ¬†since I’ve lived in this ‘hood. It’s cheap, convenient, and I don’t need an appointment. But at my last visit I was pushed to the limit of what a woman can withstand.

Upon completing my hair cut, the barber said to me, “You don’t have a modern cut, but you have what works for you.” WTF?? What the hell does that mean? I look like something out of the 1800’s? I look like shit, but it’s by choice?

I tried to shrug off her comments, and I asked her how much I owed her (she’s charged me a couple different prices in the past), and that’s when she mumbled something unintelligible. I had to ask her to repeat what she said, and out came this gem, “Do you get the Senior Discount?” Me: “How old do you have to be for the Senior discount?” Her: “65.” HOLY MOTHER OF GOD…I’m only 57!

I am so done with this place. I just can’t take it. Adios you hair hack!!!

 

 

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