28 October 2011
I could never be a bartender. Not only would I drink the merchandise, but I could never tolerate the customers' nonsense and bullshit stories. Too much talking, not enough drinking. Just shut the fuck up and drink. And while you're at it, get a fucking life. Barbers must feel the same way. The woman who cuts my hair is a hot Vietnamese cougar. She must be well into her late 40s or early 50s, but with the curves, hair, and lips of a much younger woman. She sports subtle blonde highlights in her medium-length hair, which I've always interpreted without fail as a sign of an Asian woman's interest in European men. I've no interest in Asian women myself, but female magic in action from whatever source is lovely to behold. She has a soft, sweet, lisping accent. The effect is utterly charming. As you know, my hair is cropped according to the traditional Prussian configuration--#1.5 on the back and sides and #3 on top. She accuses me of being a cop, soldier, or nazi...and then she laughs. We go through this routine every other time I visit her. The last time I saw her she had a black eye on her left side, which she endeavoured to cover up with loads of make-up. It didn't work.