My barber is a cool guy.
Long hair, go-with-the-flow attitude, holds the golden chair in the shop. Like an unlocked Call of Duty skin after 10,000 cuts.
He tells me stories.
One client he described as an older, modestly dressed man. You couldn’t know who he is or what he does. Of course, the conversation he had with him was perplexing until the small talk pried an answer out of the stranger.
“What do you do for work?”
“I coach a basketball team.”
“Oh, like for a high school?”
“No, assistant coach for the 76ers.”
No fucking shit, huh.
~
Another one.
He came in while I was mid-cut, trying to squeeze an appointment in the same day. He was salt and pepper on a crispy tan made by the Floridian sun. And too casually dressed for a gen-xer. Like he didn’t care.
When our barber suggested it, the guy refused to have someone else cut his hair. He managed to book a spot after 2 kids at the end of the day.
When he left, my barber filled me in;
“What do you do for work?”
“I’m in a band, I play bass.”
“Oh, like you do gigs with your friends?”
“You probably heard of it; Fuel.”
The fucking bassist for Fuel.
Granted, I didn’t know the band at all, but they’re hard-rock and pretty big.
A rockstar who won’t let anyone else cut his hair.
That’s my barber.
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