6.24.04- One guy that loves to tell corny jokes that I rarely find amusing came in today. I decided to tell him a joke of my own that ends all jokes. So, I said "Knock knock!"
   With a silly smile and a curious look on his face, he asked, "Who's there?"
   I answered, "Amy Fisher". Then I quickly pointed my index finger in his face with my thumb raised and yelled, "Bang!"

6.25.04- These people are really ridiculous. This guy came in that I'll call Mr. Blockhead and asked, "How much for a cut?". Anyone in this business knows this question spells trouble. Every now and then, some people come up with the brilliant idea of negotiating with the barber over the price. What the unsuspecting individual found out is that by asking that question, he automatically got "highballed". That's a term I use in negotiating prices for haircuts. Also, it should be noted that whatever price I say, I follow with the key phrase "...and up". This is my disclosure that no matter what I say, it's bound to change, because prior experience tells me that whenever someone wants to solidify a contract on the price of a haircut, he's bad news, if nothing else. Well, I've learned to use this type of annoyance as entertainment. So let the trouble begin; and it did.
   The first thing Mr. Blockhead had a problem with was the electric clipper. I should have known immediately that he has special hair that requires special care. Obviously less than pleased, he said, "This ith the firtht time in over thirty yearth thumone ith uthing a clipper on MY HAIR!"
   I blame myself for not realizing from the initial negotiations over the price that this individual was obviously suffering issues pertaining to personal individuality. Not missing a beat, I cooly replied, "This is the first time in over twelve years I've used a clipper on someone's hair that has more hairspray in it than most women do. My, aren't you the unique one?" Then, after a lengthy lecture on how my being a highly experienced health care professional qualifies me as being able to know what tools to use in this particular profession, I congratulated him on his interest in the most coveted profession of all, barbering. As much as some people hate to admit it, I know much more about my profession than they do. [smiling] I could write a book about it.
   So, Mr. Blockhead got what I call in this business "mored to death". This is a phrase that I use in regard to how problematic people should be charged for the many abuses health care professionals like myself have to put up with due to certain clients' mental issues. The more they cause problems, the more they should get charged. It's a simple concept really. "Get in the chair. Shut up. Give me the money. Get out and watch the door on the way. [smiling] Next victim, please."

6.26.04- [random thought] Old ladies that don't know what to do with so many kids shouldn't live in shoes.

6.26.04- I'm really beginning to lose faith in the human race. For some unknown reason, There are more strange people on Saturdays than any other day of the week. I'm going to make a sign and have a special price list just on Saturdays. I'll call it "Wacko Saturday Specials".
   Today, a man I'll call Bozo came in and got in the chair and asked, "Do you do regular haircuts?" It was a cruel question. I can't describe to you in writing how I instantly felt. If I were to take my computer keyboard right now, as I'm reliving this horrifying experience, and throw it on the roof, I'd probably feel somewhat better, if that gives any indication of how I felt. How can somebody walk into a barbershop and ask a question like that? "No sir, I only cut the hair of dogs, cats, and certain farm animals. That last person you saw leaving as you were on your way in was with his poodle that wears a baseball cap, walks on it's hind legs and just happens to look like a little boy. Well, apparently, Bozo wasn't content with the amount of torture he was causing by his first question, so he asked another question. "This is a barbershop, isn't it?" Trying not to make eye contact, because I know he'd see my eyes glazed over with ice, I looked around from one end of the shop to the other, while thinking to myself as if speaking to a retarded child, "Let me see... Here's a comb. Here's a brush. Here's a clipper. That's a barberpole spinning out there. You walked under a huge sign that says "BARBERSHOP". I'm standing here in front of a barber chair that you're sitting in, thanks to my endless tolerance for dopey questions, and there's hair all over the floor. There's jars of blue stuff with more combs, there's witch hazel, clipper blades, shears and lollipops for the little um... er... kids, right there in front of your face!" So I said in a very calm voice, "You answered your own question." Evidently, his barber of thirty years retired, or so he says, and he had to go out and find a new one. That's easier said than done in this town. The ratio of hairdressers to barbers are about twenty five to one here. So I can understand Bozo's angst. Regardless, I think his former barber saw him coming and ran and hid and had one of the other barbers tell him that he retired. I can't be certain though.

6.27.04- Here are some things you don't say to barbers, ever!

1) "How much for a cut?" Look around. Prices must be posted by law. If there isn't a sign, walk out. The price is generally based on the attitude of the client, anyway. The answer a person asking this question may get might be, "If you have to ask, you can't afford it." There's a lot of truth in that. If people have to ask how much a haircut is, yet can spend twenty five dollars a week on lottery tickets, those people may want to seriously check themselves into some sort of institution.

2) [looking at the floor after the haircut] "Is all that MY hair?!" If people knew how many times a week we hear this, they'd never, ever ask it.

3) "Now if you could figure out a way to put some of that hair on top of my head, you'd be rich!" Again, read number two. That's a good way to get a "baldie" next time in.

   Here's some advice for those that may entertain the idea of not tipping the barber. There's no excuse for such a despicable action as this. Don't ever try to pull the ol' "It's customary not to tip the owner" routine. The owner became the owner because he got lots of tips by being better and smarter than most others. That's how he became the owner. If a person ever uses that line, that person would do best never to return. We remember. We know the color of the car. We memorize every detail about that person. People, don't think you're gonna charm your way past the tip by foolish reasoning that if you're extra, extra nice, you don't have to tip. Wrong again. We see it coming. We've gone through this nonsense way too long and way too many times not to know when we're about to get a "wooden nickel". On the other hand, if someone is not nice, we weed that person out. Yes, you heard me right. We run our shops like gardens. When a weed pops up, it gets removed. Don't be a weed. Be nice to the barber and also tip him.
   This happened several years ago. A lawyer came in that I'll call El Cheapo Esq. Ol' El Cheapo Esq thought he was the clever one and decided he wasn't going to tip the owner. He even said, "It's customary not to tip the owner...". The owner said he understood and then asked for a business card. El Cheapo Esq went out to his car and dug around for a card, bumping his head getting out, and then returned with it. The following visit, El Cheapo Esq was told by the owner that one of his other clients needed representation in the area of law El Cheapo Esq practiced. When El Cheapo Esq asked the owner if he gave the client in need of representation his business card, the answer he got was, "I lost it. Could you please give me another one?" The owner added, "The client returns every two weeks and will be in any day now." El Cheapo Esq grimaced and returned to the car for another card. This time he tipped the owner.
   El Cheapo Esq learned a very important lesson regarding proper barbershop etiquette that day and why you tip the guy that's there every day, the one that pays the bills, the one that built the place, the one that opens on time every day and stays late, the one that weeds out the troublemakers in order to keep it a peaceful place for the majority, the owner.

6.27.04- [flashback] There's this one elderly guy that comes in that I really can't assign a nickname to because I can't place a known character to his face. Since I'm sure he'll be coming back, I'll have to think of something to call him. I'll combine two words into one and call him Gork. Gork has a really bad speech problem. I'm not making fun of him, because it is really terrible trying to understand him. I don't know what you'd call it, but it's not a lisp. It's more like someone talking without teeth like Elmer Fudd. To make matters worse, he talks really fast so even Elmer Fudd wouldn't be able to understand him.
   Cutting Gork's hair should be quite simple. If he could keep his mouth shut for three minutes, it would be a barber's dream. But no, that's not possible. Gork has to chatter away and move his head like a chicken, making himself a dangerous moving target.
   One day Gork said, "Yangs shnot doonk do gook diz sheer."
   I was like, "Huh?!"
   He said even faster, with more emphasis this time, "Yangs shnot doonk do gook diz sheer! Deeder zinna swump!"
   I said, "Oh yes. You're right." I've learned to agree with him by simply nodding my head and saying "yes". I'm still not sure what he was talking about. For all I know, he may have been saying, "Don't take too much off, I'm going to a wedding tomorrow."

6.28.04- [reflection] Looking back, I'd like to relate an experience that everyone else may have had at one time or another. It was at my favorite sandwich shop that I'll call the Underground Railway. If anyone has a problem with anger management or works in a sandwich shop, it's probably best not to read this next entry.

   As I was eating my favorite Italian combo made with my favorite Italian herbs and cheese bread, two individuals that looked like bosom buddies walked in. I'll call them Bert and Ernie. The taller one, Bert, who appeared to be the leader, was chattering on his cell phone as they both approached the counter. It was hard not to notice the eyes of the "sandwich artist" immediately glaze over with unmistakable displeasure that even the most highly skilled people person would have not been able to conceal.
   As the sandwich artist feigned exuberant joy and patience, she calmly turned to Ernie, asking him if he was ready to order. Ernie quickly responded, "No, I'm not sure what I'm having." This reply was met by either a blink or a twitch. I'm not sure which.
   While Bert incessantly jabbered away with the phantom caller about when and where they would "meet tomorrow morning", Ernie stared blankly at the menu overhead. It was at this point that I suspected they were both either 1) mildly retarded, 2) abusing non prescription drugs at a graduation party somewhere, or 3) all of the above. How two people can walk up to an Underground Railway counter and not be prepared to give an order to the poor sandwich artist that's been standing there without a break since 10:00 AM is beyond comprehension.
   It is generally accepted, yet not a substantiated fact that 99.9% of all people visiting the Underground Railway get the same thing, on the same bread, with the same drink every time. It's really not a complicated decision.
   I'd rather not try to imagine what was going on in the sandwich artist's mind at this particular moment. I'm sure it had nothing to do with sandwich artwork.
   It's because of moments like this that I always remember to tip the sandwich artist way beyond what's normal. I'd hate to see one of those poor sandwich artists get arrested for savagely beating a customer with one of those heavy, green trays.
   Ernie ended up getting a wrap, Bert's probably still babbling on his cell phone to his imaginary friend, and the sandwich artist is undoubtedly honing both her sandwich art and people skills to a fine sheen.

   I'm hoping against hope that nobody comes into the shop with a cell phone tomorrow.

6.29.04- Today was pretty boring, except for the tri-yearly visit from the "Crayon Family". Every summer, when school lets out and the welfare checks arrive, they come roaring in.
       Usually, all the Crayon Family kids get their haircuts on the same visit. On rare occasions, they make several clamorous trips. They always come in with the mom but never with any of the dads. And when they arrive, it's like having a big box of crayons opened up inside the shop.
   It's usually an exciting time when the Crayon Family arrives, because Pandemonium always accompanies them with her usual chaos. Her friend Mayhem also comes in, shattering the fleeting calm, like a distant thunderhead that comes rolling in on a previously bright, sunny day, without giving any prior warning of his arrival.
   While one Crayon is pulling the leaves off the plant, another is kicking the walls. There's usually one or two crying by the candy machine, too. They always get lots of candy and then they really go berserk. I'm hoping they move before school starts at the end of the summer.

6.29.04- I spoke too soon. While explaining the Crayon Family, I was closed for lunch. While eating my lunch, I kept hearing a thumping noise that was really disturbing my equanimity. When I opened up, I found the source of the annoying disturbance. It was coming from a man that I'll call Papa Smurf.
   Papa Smurf was kicking the wall next to the entrance of the shop. He was leaning against the wall, while continuously thumping his heel against it. If the wall were to fall on him, I wouldn't be upset if the insurance company ruled it "an act of God".
   Papa smurf is deaf. He does all of the talking and all I do is move my lips pretending like I'm talking too. He nods his head and continues talking. Communicating with him is the exact opposite of communicating with Gork from entry 6.27.04 .
   Aside from the annoying wall kicking, my problem isn't with Papa Smurf. It's with his wife, Mama Smurf. She usually waits outside and then shows up right when I'm finishing. She monitors how much he pays me. She's very "frugal".
   Mama Smurf wears way too much perfume. It shouldn't even be called that. It smells like some kind of stuff they sell at South Of The Border, that place that sells fireworks and stuff. They sell perfume for about five dollars a gallon. That's the stuff Mama Smurf wears quite liberally. The shop smells for the next two days.
   My personal goal in life is to just once get Papa Smurf's haircut done before Mama Smurf comes in. So far, including today, I've failed at this goal. She showed up right on cue, and that foul fragrance wasn't too far behind.
   Mama Smurf always smiles at me like she likes me or something, kind of in an overly flirtatious way that some old ladies do. Papa Smurf sometimes even acts jealous. If they knew what I really thought, they'd go somewhere else.
   I guess it's my civic responsibility as a public servant and humane responsibility as a human being to keep on being polite to these people because I'm sure nobody else would put up with this sort of psychological abuse.

6.29.04- Every now and then someone complains. I was just reminded of this fact because a man that once stated that I gave him the worst haircut of his life was just in. He used gestures and abusive tones and yet still comes back. I've surmised that it must be a mental issue.
   Anyway, people occasionally complain. Well, today I have a few complaints and rebuttals of my own that I'd like to share:

    • Do you have a dog? Because your hair smells like you do.

    • Could you perhaps leave your head here with me and stop back later and pick it up?

    • Would washing your hair at least once a week and before getting your haircut be a possibility? My shears won't cut through grease.

    • Could you please hold still when you babble? I'd hate to accidentally snip off your ear.

    • Would it be possible for you to hold your breath for five minutes?

    • [when they say I left it too long last time] When was that, eight months ago? Do you think you could at least get it cut twice a year?

    • [when the wife says that it doesn't look right] Could you please show me how it's done? [handing her the tools]

    • [when they say they don't like their haircut] I'm really sorry, but I can't change your face.

6.30.04- There is another thing I must mention that a person should never, ever say to a barber. Anyone that says this has to be either on drugs or mentally defunct. The reason I'm mentioning it is because it was just stated to me. "Cut it like last time." That's about the equivalent of walking into the Underground Railway and saying, "I'll have the same as last time." If people don't mind having their sandwich art spit on, then they should by all means say this to the sandwich artist.
   The thought that immediately runs through my head is that this person must function on a regular basis within a microcosm - just some mindless cog working in an institution of mindless cogs, never seeing the result of their work, only to be vomited out and replaced with some other mindless cog when the institution is through with him. Either that, or they just have an unusually low IQ.
   Do people actually think they make that much of an impression that they stand out as unique and individual when visiting a barbershop? Wake up people! You're all just numbers. In, out, next victim. In, out, next victim. In, out, next victim - and on and on and on...
   Unless somebody does something completely stupendous like tripping on the way out of a business establishment, professional individuals such as myself, doctors, dentists, and sandwich artists have absolutely no recollection of what you ordered, what you said, or what work was done on your head.
   My usual response to moronic statements like "Cut it like last time" would be by saying, "What did you ask for?" Nine times out of ten they don't remember, thus leaving them feeling like the stupid ones.
   It's hard to believe, but some people expect others to remember them when the very same people can't even remember what they had for breakfast that morning. If you want to be remembered, don't tip us. We'll remember you then. Please refer to "El Cheapo Esq" at entry dated 6.27.04.

6.30.04- I was just asked a question that reminds me of a conversation I'd love to have:

Mr. Bonehead: "How was your vacation?"
Barber: "What vacation?"
Mr. Bonehead: "A couple weeks ago I came here and you were closed. The sign said you'd be back in a week."
Barber: [calculating time shop was closed to two months, one week and six days ago - not a "couple weeks", knowing also that someone else cut his hair in between] "I wasn't on vacation. I saw you coming, so I locked the door, turned off the lights, put up a sign and ran in back and watched you pull on the door, read the sign, look in the window and leave."
Mr. Bonehead: [blank stare] "Oh."
Barber: "You ask too many personal questions. Don't worry about me and what I do. Also, take a shower next time before coming in here. You smell."

6.30.04- Contrary to popular belief, I will speak for all barbers everywhere when I say that we are not overwhelmed with extreme, rapturous, emotional delight when people show up with their kids. We'd be happier if people bought home clipper sets from Wally World and cut the kids' hair themselves. Better yet, we'd be even more happy if people everywhere just stopped having kids.