Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Oh, My Stars

These things I know about the barber who cuts my hair in Livingston, Montana:

He refers to his wife as 'the battle-ax.' Or, alternately, as 'the fucking battle-ax.'

Though uncommonly foul-mouthed, even by own foul-mouthed standards, his favored exclamation remains, 'Oh, my stars.'

The project of his old age is reading all thirteen volumes of the journals of Lewis and Clark.

When he was in the army in Korea he got more tail than a dickweed like me could even dream about, and never paid any woman a red cent.

Every single time he has finished cutting my hair he says, 'How'd I do, blockhead? Not too shabby for a fat old blind man with a pair of dull scissors.'

And, oh, my stars, has he ever heard some stories. He should write a book. He really should. See all those books over there on that shelf? He's read every fucking one of them, and they're all fucking garbage. He could shit better books.

The last time I was in there waiting for a haircut, the customer in the chair said, 'I don't know who to believe anymore.'

'I don't believe anybody,' the barber said.

'Not even me?' the customer asked.

'Fuck. Are you shitting me, Lenny? Oh, my stars, how long have I been cutting your hair? I'd have to be an even bigger fool than I already am to believe a word that comes out of your mouth. You'd sell me a bottle of dick water and try to convince me it was soda pop.'

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