The Haircut Club

 

The Haircut Club

The two of them were sitting on a fence, spitting tobacco, passing a flask, bored.  Out of nowhere, Jed said “I think I’ll get me a buzz cut.”  Barney came back with “With your ugly skull?”

“Or I could go all handsome bald, like Bruce Willis.”

“For that, you’ll need a facelift, too.”

Jed already had short hair, like any self-respecting redneck, but he wanted it shorter; like Vin Diesel or Lex Luthor.  Barney had short hair too, like all the other farmers in town.  In the lulls between planting and harvesting, they all came to town for haircuts.  It all started out of necessity during the head lice epidemic of 2014.  Short hair was here to stay in Podunk county. 

“Even women got short, short hair these days.  Just look at Ellie May down at the feed store.”

“She got that from radiation, dummy.”

“What about that Thelma Lou seamstress gal?”

“She got Chemo, you moron.”

Jed and Barney preferred crewcuts, a tad longer than buzzcuts.  Flat tops were too jarhead, mohawks too punk, long hair too hippy, flips too Elvis, and Mullets too rock n’ roll.  But, cut or no cut, what they really wanted was to just sit in Lloyd’s barber shop, shoot the bull, smell the Mennen, watch the glide of a stainless blade on skin, and listen to Merle Haggard on the RCA.

“You know what I like best about getting a haircut?  The way Loyd handles a man’s head.”

“You got that right pal.  Like he’s cradlin’ a baby.”

“My wife ain’t no good at it.”

“No woman is.  It’s a man thing.”

“I’m gettin’ excited.”

“Enough talk, let’s go.”

So Jed and Barney drove on down to Lloyd’s shop with its spinning striped pole out front, and moseyed in like it was no big deal, just another chore.  Arnold was in the chair, Jethro up next, then Otis, then Forrest. 

“Howdy boys,” said Jed to the whole room, and four howdies came right back at him.  Then Jed sat and grabbed last month’s Tire & Tractor Times, swim suit edition. In the other chairs sat all the short-haired country boys he’d grown up with, and dropped out with.  None of those boys really needed haircuts, they just wanted comforting.  They’d chewed and spat and cursed congress all day, and were ready for some fun.   One by one, their heads got cut and massaged.  Finally, it was Jed’s turn.

Lloyd asked “How do you want it this time, Jed?”

Jed said “Short,” Lloyd commenced snipping and clipping up in the air over Jeb’s head, pretending there was something worth cutting.  Then came the good part: the un-snugging of the collar, the hot lather on the neck, the whisk brush all about the ears, and a slap of aftershave on the cheeks.  Then, the climax; Lloyd’s magical finger massage from the top of the scalp down to the blades of the shoulders.  It only lasted a few minutes, but it sent tingles all through the body of any man whose only physical contact with living creatures all day was squeezing udders and chopping chickens.

When Jed was done, he collapsed in a waiting chair and swooned.  Barney was next. But when Barney commenced to moaning, Lloyd cut him off and pointed at a sign on the wall over the mirrors that said “No Moaning.”  Lloyd waved his straight razor overhead, threateningly, and shooed them all out, then turned off the spinning pole and locked the door.   

The fresh smelling, clean cut, good ol’ boys had dutifully stood up and marched out in unison on Lloyd's command, like always.  Out front they spit Skol a bit, slugged a shot or two, damned congress, and went their different ways to start up their identical F-150s.  They drove home east, west, north and south out of town on the only four roads in Podunk. 

Lloyd hollered behind them “See you tomorrow,” and they hollered back through their open rifle back windows “Yep,” they would.

The boys drove home to their country hovels.  Lloyd drove home to his suburban estate.

 

 

 

Handsome Stranger, Just Passin' Through

 

Handsome Stranger, Just Passin' Through

Handsome Stranger rolled into town, a rootless tumbleweed of a man, covered in thirty days dust, with nary a drop of drink left in his gullet.  He had no name nor kin, just a mighty thirst.    

Old Parson seen him first and feared him for the devil.  Loners ain’t nothin’ but trouble, and strangers even worse, an’ both them types oughta stay away from proper folk.  Parson had shot enough strangers to fill a hill o’ crosses, but would not shoot this one, not yet, on accounta Stranger looked a smidge too young and handsome to be laid low in the dirt fer now.   

“Where you from and where you goin’?” asked Parson, slidin’ his long carbine in and out of its holster. 

“I ain’t neither from nowhere nor goin’ nowhere.  Just passin’ through.” said Stranger, fingerin’ the six-shooter hung down between his chapped thighs.  Parson gave him the stink-eye, so Handsome Stranger shot him straight through that very eye.  Parson fell off his horse and hit the ground, whispered Dang, and withered up in the sun, getting’ uglier all day.

Stranger rode his ole’ nag up the rutted main street of that mangy town and tied her to the dryrotted hitchin’ post in front of the only saloon in a hunnert mile.  Off he jumped and down he dunked his head in the warm slimy water of the slobbery horse trough.  Then into the saloon he swaggered all cocky, right through them creaky café doors; doors so outta place in a town without no café. 

“Barkeep!  Whiskey me!” hollered the young Stranger.  The ugly old Barkeep said “Who’s askin?” so Stranger took offense and shot a .45 through that Barkeep’s mouth before the words finished comin’ out, just to make a point.  Any other stranger what killed their barkeep woulda been shot dead ten times over by the ornery pack of drunks in that establishment, but this stranger was different from others before.  This one was young and handsome as that Jesus painting with them eyes that seemed to follow you around the chapel at the edge of town.  So that pack of horny old gamblers didn’t shoot him, just bought him a dirty glass of rot-gut whiskey instead, while two town goons plundered that dead ol’ barkeep’s boots, buckles and pockets.

“How long you in town?” asked an ugly ol’ one-eyed scar of a drunk.

“Not long.  Just passin’ through.”

Hearin’ that, all them ugly old whores on the second floor, lookin’ down from the balcony, swooned and raised them skirts, showin’ off their torn and dirty bloomers.  Nothin’ they loved more than a man who was just passin’ through. Handsome Stranger reminded them of their own worthless poppas, who also just passed through and never came back.

“Come on up, Stranger,” said the big-as-a-barrel madam in charge.

Stranger shot her straight up the ass for temptin’ him to stray from the Lord that way. Whorin’ was a sin and God surely was aimin’ a blunderbuss down on them all.  The buttshot madam’s ass, along with the rest of her fouled carcass, fell off the balcony onto the poker table, interruptin’ bad hands and bad bluffs.  Any other gamblers woulda shot Stranger dead right then and there for ruinin’ a lousy game.  But this Stranger was different.  He had the best dimples and squint of any young man in the Western territories.  They bought him another whiskey and watched his chaps a-chafin’ on his slender thighs as he sashayed’ up to the bar.

Stranger drank his fill, paid his tab, snugged his leathers, and swaggered back out through them swingin’ café doors, doors which served no purpose at all, then mounted his nag with a giddy-up cluck, and spurred her on down that God-forsaken ol’ mudhole of a street toward the dusty, fallin’ sun.

The saloon emptied into the street. The townfolk, all God-fearin’ drunks and bible-totin’ whores and their bastard young’uns, gathered in the street to gawk at that young Handsome Stranger go, a-leavin’ that town a tad uglier just by turnin’ his back on it. He coulda raped and robbed every one of them and still got their honor and respect, on accounta his square jaw an’ steely eyes an’ tight chaps.  He reminded them of themselves when they was still young and handsome, ridin’ into that snakebit town,  back when they themselves planned on just passin’ through.