Me... the Sunday Sport... and the Happy Emo Barber of Harlow!

Every month us guys have to suffer the indignity of having our hair cut, this little chore is pure boredom in a can. It doesn’t matter how early you go you’re guaranteed to have at least a queue of six in front of you.

I once stood outside the barbers waiting for it to open and I was blatantly the only one outside, opposite there is a newsagents, literally three steps in front of me. So I looked at my watch and with a full ten minutes to spare I decided to go into the newsagents to buy a paper. Buying my own paper is part of the ritual of getting your hair cut for sole reason of sanity. Once I forgot and I had to read the magazines they had and I was shocked to realize that recently the Titanic sunk, so from that moment on I decided to buy my own boredom cure.

So I went in and bought the Daily Sport, good paper that… full of good factual stories and plenty of nipples. So literally thirty seconds later I step out of the shop with my eyes rolling in tits and I look up, the fucking barbers opened a full seven minutes early with a poxy queue of ten hairy wombles waiting in front of me. This was not a good start, now I had the complete asshole and to make matters worse the only person cutting hair was the happy emo.

Now there’s a very valid and scientific reason I buy the sport, it’s not for the tits I promise you. The happy emo despite being a right royal conversational pest always comments on the fact that I buy the Sport, to which I always answer

“it’s the best paper in the world, do you want me to leave it here when I’m done?”

Now the trick is you have to read it so all the old farts can see, but not read… it works every time and it’s a trade secret to jumping the queue when it comes to the barbers. What you do is lightly scan all the boob filled pages so all the farts can see them, and believe me they will be looking. Just as the barber finishes dicing up the bored sod in the mastermind chair, close the paper and roll it up and put it beside you. This is the important bit; if you let it go someone will take it so keep it rolled up and by your side until the barber calls for the next victim. Now watch as all the farts within your immediate area let you go before them, now normally I would leave the paper behind but it’s entirely up to you, there are no rules that say you have to so it’s entirely up to you.

Now I don’t know whether it’s just fate or maybe an act of God or something, but I always end up with having my hair felt up by the happy emo. Now this guy aint a bad kid, I don’t dislike him or anything like that, I just don’t want to indulge in idol chitchat with someone that I rarely see from one month to the next. He asks me the same questions every single bloody time and it’s almost clockwork…

Not working today? Where do you work? Is it good? Is the pay good? Blah blah

Now I make a game out of it simply by changing my job every time I get my hair cut, and he responds with a full conversation every time and his gullibility is fascinating to me to say the least. This last year I have been a training Astronaught, dustman, front bench spokesman for industry, model scout and MP for Billington upon sea (which don’t exist) now either his memory has the attention span of a Goldfish with avian flu or he’s a secret android hair cutting alien from bettlejuice… I’m yet undecided.

Life would be a lot less annoying if I could be a hippy or even a skinhead… but I love my hair and it’s a necessary evil I have to suffer twelve times a year. Dammit!