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Waiting until his hair was simply too long to be professionally unacceptable, Harrison Glenbow sighed heavily this morning moments before stepping into his local barbershop.

Gone is his usual 60-year-old Polish hairdresser and in his place stands a well-built young man with a big beard; ironic tattoos covering most of his visible, sickly skin.

Where his barbershop used to stand is now some ghastly reproduction of an old-timey barbershop – but he didn’t realise until it was too late.

“Some days, I just don’t feel like talking to anybody,” said the 29-year-old.

“Especially people I don’t know very well. Vassilli, my old barber, understood that. I could just come in and tell him to make my hair shorter and then he would. Then I would give him $15 and leave. A perfect system,”

“This, on the other hand, is my worse nightmare. Let me tell you what happened. I even ended up thanking the hip cunt for fucking my hair up. The fuck is wrong with me?”

As soon as Glenbow entered the establishment, he went to leave.

But he was caught at the door.

“Hey man, take a seat we’ll be right with you,” said one of the Mumford & Son looking scissormen.

A few minutes passed, almost twenty according to Harrison.

“Ok bro, we’re ready for you. Jump in this chair and Banjo will be right with you, bro.”

Banjo Clemente, a tertiary-educated hairdresser with a HECS debt thicker than Eddie McGuire’s neck, started cutting Harrison’s hair without even so much as a prior discussion as to what he might like.

“So what can I do for you, man? Just a bit off the top and sides?” asked Banjo as he changed combs on the clippers.

“Oh yeah, sure. But not too much off the top, it’s starting to fall out and I’m worried it won’t grow back,” replied Harrison.

“Haha yeah, sure bud. No problemos, bro. I’ll fix you right up.”

Around that time, the meek Gemini wanted to say something but opted to just sit there and maintain eye contact with himself, wondering why he’s so broken and dead on the inside.

“When he was finished, I looked at myself in the mirror and just thought, ‘Oh look, I’ve got one of those fuck boy haircuts, you know those ones that the SS stormtroopers had during the war. Fuck yes,’ and I just sighed and felt like crying a bit,”

“So I got up, gave him a $50, got $5 back in change, then got the bus the rest of the way to work,”

“But before I left, I looked him in the eye and thanked him for making me look like an utter fuck head.”

More to come.



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