Archive for old

Over a Haircut

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on 3rd December, 2009 by kal

Kid, now a Young Man, walks into a barber shop. It’s not just any old barber shop — or rather, it’s just not any of the new fancy swanky hi-funda men’s/unisex saloons (as they’re known). No sirjee, this is Ye Olde Haircutter, an establishment that has been around in Kid’s childhood neighbourhood for as little as Kid can remember.

He hasn’t been here in five years. On his way there, he notices that the new fancy men’s saloon that had opened across from Ye Haircutter five years ago (Ploom Groom) had now been upgraded to an even more alluring unisex place (Plooms and Permz). He’d been to Ploom Groom once. They had young, cocky, inexperienced staff (one of whom nicked Kid’s ear, causing him to panic about infectious diseases) and charged twice what he was used to paying at Ye Haircutter. This time, unisex or not, he eshwed this shiny temptation.

Pushing open the ancient dilapidated door of Ye Olde Haircutter, Kid wonders if they place is still run by the gay-looking barber and (presumably) his brother. As a kid, he used to wonder why they had three barber chairs, when there were only the two of them to attend to customers. Inside, he isn’t surprised to see one of the three chairs empty, while the gay-looking barber is shaving somebody and (presumably) his brother is massaging somebody else’s head.

There is also another person, an Old Man, waiting for his turn.

Kid (mildly disappointed): “Will it take time?”

Gay-looking Barber: “A little, have a seat.”

Old Man glowers at Kid for a moment as Kid sits down next to him. Old Man returns to watching Cricket on Telly.

A few minutes of silence-shave-pound-silence later, and GlB is done shaving somebody.

Old Man: Hey kid, you wanna go ahead?

Kid: No sir, you were here first…

Old Man: It’s all right, I just want a shave. I’ll watch Cricket a little longer…

Kid: Okay, sure…

Kid thinks, Oh my… how horrible of me! I’m the impatient uncouth youth of the world. I’m just as bad as those fancy saloons I avoided going to, just as in need of instant gratification as the wasteful children who support and frequent those places. Look at that Old Man. He’s in no hurry. He must have been coming to this barber shop for years, every day or every other day to get a shave. But is it just the shave? No! He’s here for the experience, for the chance to sit and soak in the snip-snip-snips and black-not-brown bickering of the clientele. He scornfully gives way to speed-freaks as if to say “Haha! I’m not going to help you out when you crash and burn, son!” Great. Here I am, with a desire to try and become good at observing the world turn and run, but I can’t even patiently wait for a haircut, and take in the charm of this quaint, run down old place, with all its stories and memories…


*10 minutes earlier*


…and GlB is done shaving somebody.

Old Man thinks, Oh no… that damn faggot wants to shave me now. No.Fucking.Way.

Old Man: Hey kid, you wanna go ahead?





hee hee… look what i found

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , on 9th January, 2009 by kal

The Barmaid

Slightly tipsy, behind the counter she mixed a drink and fixed me up –
her first night on the job.
The Barmaid.

I drink, and she drinks and somethings intoxicate us both – a
synthetic madness-inducing poison courses through her veins, while
another madness grips me and sends my pulse racing.

And I wonder how it would be, this barmaid and me, by a beach or by a
fire – she makes the drinks, I provide her laughter – or under a great
and strange summer night painted in shades of purple & black.

And I see her serve the stupored – measuring, pouring, mixing, smiling
courteously at tips and compliments – with a mechanical precision she
has mastered. In the lean times, she sips her vodka – her only vice –
smoking a cigarette or two that admiring hangers-on like myself
readily procure for her.

Fate is written, the die is cast
And you lie here reading poetry half-assed
Hypocrites we are, down to the last &
Embrace the future but can’t forget the past.

Her voice – magical, mysterious, noteless, tuneless
sounds grating against the sense of my body – music to my soul. By day
she is quiet; reserve; thoughtful; and altogether bound, trapped, a
caged kitten resigned to her fate, forcing herself to be happy.

* * * *

It’s closing time; the lights go out around the house. She stands beneath the
last lit lamp
doing the books like she’s supposed to.

Where would she rather be?

I would like to take her there.

If she would let me.

Instead, I pay my tab & leave.

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