Got my hair cut the other day. Don't pretend you hadn't noticed. Walked in off the street, no appointment, uninvited because that's how I roll. I asked if anyone could deal with my hair, there and then, right now.
A sleeping polar bear, or Ben, as it turned out, was awoken from his snoring slumber by the receptionist that we'll name Candy for fun's sake. An alarmed Ben jumped to his feet, the magazine that was bobbing up and down on his sleeping belly now hits the floor but remains standing, just as I sit to receive my shampoo and massage. A little while later and big Ben is cutting my hair, nervously, asking me for tips, instilling no confidence in me at all that he is competent, or up to the cut. It was a hairy situation to say the least.
I remarked, perhaps stupidly I now realise with hindsight: "New premises eh, you used to be in a smaller retailer unit. This new big store is much nicer, better location too".
"Aye", he retorts. "That's Max so it is, full a ideas, that Max, with his ideas."
"FUCK!" I screamed in my head as I see the flash of an evil face in the mirror. I know, instinctively somehow, to look outside. To my horror, yet slight curiosity and benevolence all the same, what I will refer to as the riddler, grinning from ear to ear, draped in hooded dark brown garments, a wooden cane, beard - medieval looking, you know. He's holding a little box and he gives it a big shake.
All I could focus on was the single beating subwoofer as it pulsated away to Gino Soccio's Human Nature (Fen Acid Nature Edit) in a dark underground bar with red velvet and gold everywhere. A disco ball, dancing shadows, coloured streamers littered all over. An empty stage with a brass poll it's only act. A gun to my head I'm forced to place high stakes bets on which fat naked man on a space hopper will cross the line first. At this very moment, a flared, afro'd Hendricks doppelganger whips out a pistol and says in a long slow accent: "you gotta focusssss...."
Overjoyed, floating saxophones playing themselves appear. I catch a glance of the fat man I placed a bet on as he licks his lips aggressively, the sweat from his brow reflecting the disco light.
I then wake up in Lawrence Street in a cold sweat with the meaning of life firmly realised.
It's a Friday, let's do thisssss.
ZZ Top
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