Barber’s used to be doctor’s back in medieval times… Sometimes I wish I were a doctor, I’d make significantly more money and be held in higher regard and serve a far more important role. But no, I’m a barber; a cosmetologist by trade. And all that money I would make would do nothing but sit there, seeing as I have very little I enjoy spending on. I’m not frivolous; I have plenty of money but nothing worthwhile to spend it on. So I own a barber shoppe; I have for seven years and eighteen days. Customers have come and gone, but some come in frequently and have been for years.
There’s this one old lady who walks in once every other week, she’s at that age where her tits depress even the most horrendous of perverts and a face that makes her tits look far less sickly. I estimate she’s nearing her early eighties. But she comes in every time and asks for the same boring haircut and the same boring wash; “Oh, a little trim and neaten it up, make me pretty.” Even though at this point she’s better off using plastic surgery to fix all of the things I can see wrong about her; the exact same technique that ruins the look of every young celebrity alive.
It’s around 11:23 in the morning, I’ve had four cups of coffee and I stand by the seat staring at passing traffic and waiting for the old lady to show up. I’ve never cared to learn her name; I’m not a very social person; but I do know that she tips graciously and usually arrives ten minutes before or after 11:30. I turn away briefly to take a sip off of my coffee and I hear the annoying electric ding from the door sensor. She’s standing there with a hideous, floral blouse and polka-dot pants and a pink knock-off Gucci hand bag. Everything about her irritates me; from her strange hobble to the loudness of her breath and her tendency to roll her jaw while I snip small threads off of her head.
But as I turn my mouth refuses to speak any of my judgements, so I smile in the most genuine way I know how and ask her nicely to be seated. And with all-too much difficulty she shuffles her way to the chair; taking more than three minutes to do so.
“No wash today darling,” her voice wavers in the most horrific dialect of the northeast in a pitch that makes my ears want to grow arms and tear themselves off.
However, I smile and nod at her and get to work; brushing out knots first and then getting to work snipping in layers. Her hair is as usual; coarse and grainy and almost matted down with the sweaty effort it must take her to accomplish the most simplistic of tasks.
As I continue to work she talks; babbling on and on about something evidently nonsensical. I appear to listen intently as she talks and talks with only a thought of shutting her up and sending her to a ward where she could be out of my life forever.
Wait a moment.
Out of my life forever.
I have never had an inkling of urge to kill anybody in my thirty-one years of life, but it was at this moment it seemed a logical option. I wouldn’t have to deal with this eyesore of a hag whom sent all of my pleasurable mind-set reeling into fits of seething rage. And for the first time in my life my hand began to tremble as I worked; thinking about how wonderful it would be to off this miserable windbag.
It took all of my self-control to get back to work on her and finish the job. If I were going to do it; it would not be today for I had no interest in going to prison at any point in my life. I needed to know if anybody could even possibly miss this wretched creature.
She paid what she owed me and complimented me on my work; leaving a check and a ‘nice something’ for me, which just so happened to be a ten dollar bill. As she waddled out, still no less disgusting than before she’d come in despite ‘my efforts’ to pretty her up, my mind raced; joyous at the departure.
My day ended at four.
I went home.
Nothing more interesting happened on that day. I had six more customers come in; all but one of which were excessively irritating, but none nearly as much as the old-woman.