The Palo Alto Cut
I was in need of a haircut.
A few days away from an important trip, the entropic mess of hair and beard had grown well out of proportion and needed to be given a semblance of order. So I queried the internet looking for a place between home and work that I could quickly visit and found a found a small barber shop in Palo Alto just off the freeway on the way to work.
The shop was located in a shopping mall, next to a market and Vietnamese restaurant, and looked like what one would expect from a traditional, non-hipster, barber shop. In the corner, on a wooden chair, was an old man listening to the radio. A moment passed before he noticed me.
“Looking for a cut,” he asked politely.
“Yes sir, I am,” I replied with equal politeness.
As he prepped the chair, he informed me that he was not, in fact, the usual barber. His son had taken over the business a while back, but as his son was on vacation, he offered to step in for the week.
This pleased me. I liked the idea of a generational business and was glad to help support it.
Soon he directed me to the black vinyl chair. I took the seat, uncomfortable and impatient for this business to be done with as I have a dislike of sitting for haircuts; an impatience I have had since childhood. The sooner he finished, the better.
I quickly realized that this was not to be a quick outing.
He began, first, by slowly removing my glasses and placing them on the counter, then, somewhat too familiarly, he began to caress my hair before getting the water bottle, spraying it damp, and then caressing it some more.
Over the course of conversation I revealed I was soon heading to Armenia.
“You’re Armenian?”, he asked.
I replied in the affirmative.
“Growing up I had an Armenian neighbor in Fresno…,” he trailed off for a moment, as though lost in a memory “the first time I fucked a girl was on his farm.”
He then proceeded, in detail, to describe the events of that night, how he lost his virginity, only to be caught mid-coitus during by his neighbor; who rather than scold him, encouraged him to continue, asking only next time not to do so on his property.
As he told the story, I noticed, rather uncomfortably, that he was grinding his crotch into my knee as he leaned over to clip some hair, that I believe, could have been reached via another position.
The topic of sex continued. He described how he used to pleasure his first wife, the mother of the barber shop’s owner, how he would “Get her juiced” by “Eating her like a peach” and that her current husband was clearly underperforming due to her constant state of irritation.
“I think she wants me to fuck her hard, she keeps coming by,” he continued “But I’m not going to. I have a new wife, it’s hard enough to keep her satisfied, which I do”
As he said this he began to more aggressively gyrate against my knee. I, uncomfortable in my current situation, chose to close my eyes, pretended to sleep and hope the haircut would end soon.
But he was not to be fooled, or rather, simply did not care for me to rest, as he loudly and aggressively began asking about my sex life. I evaded the question, describing instead my desire to be reunited with someone in Yerevan I had left behind.
“But, you get yours, right? You look like you give it hard,” he responded, ignoring my desire to evade the subject.
“Sure,” I replied with no enthusiasm.
“Yeah you do,” he commented, again grinding inappropriately on me, “like an Armenian.”
Not knowing what “Like an Armenian” meant, I fell into silence, allowing him to speak and molest until, thankfully, the haircut was over. Looking in the mirror, I examined this haircut I suffered for; a haircut that was neither exceptional nor awful, but nonetheless represented the high cost I had paid for mediocrity.
After money was exchanged, and we were about to part ways, my foot already passing the threshold of the shop, he called out to me loudly and said:
“If you can make that girl of yours cum, she’ll be with you forever.”
And I left, sitting in the car, driving to work, ignoring the loose hair itch as I wiped my knees to try and rid myself of ghostly touch of that old man’s crotch.
A few days away from an important trip, the entropic mess of hair and beard had grown well out of proportion and needed to be given a semblance of order. So I queried the internet looking for a place between home and work that I could quickly visit and found a found a small barber shop in Palo Alto just off the freeway on the way to work.
The shop was located in a shopping mall, next to a market and Vietnamese restaurant, and looked like what one would expect from a traditional, non-hipster, barber shop. In the corner, on a wooden chair, was an old man listening to the radio. A moment passed before he noticed me.
“Looking for a cut,” he asked politely.
“Yes sir, I am,” I replied with equal politeness.
As he prepped the chair, he informed me that he was not, in fact, the usual barber. His son had taken over the business a while back, but as his son was on vacation, he offered to step in for the week.
This pleased me. I liked the idea of a generational business and was glad to help support it.
Soon he directed me to the black vinyl chair. I took the seat, uncomfortable and impatient for this business to be done with as I have a dislike of sitting for haircuts; an impatience I have had since childhood. The sooner he finished, the better.
I quickly realized that this was not to be a quick outing.
He began, first, by slowly removing my glasses and placing them on the counter, then, somewhat too familiarly, he began to caress my hair before getting the water bottle, spraying it damp, and then caressing it some more.
Over the course of conversation I revealed I was soon heading to Armenia.
“You’re Armenian?”, he asked.
I replied in the affirmative.
“Growing up I had an Armenian neighbor in Fresno…,” he trailed off for a moment, as though lost in a memory “the first time I fucked a girl was on his farm.”
He then proceeded, in detail, to describe the events of that night, how he lost his virginity, only to be caught mid-coitus during by his neighbor; who rather than scold him, encouraged him to continue, asking only next time not to do so on his property.
As he told the story, I noticed, rather uncomfortably, that he was grinding his crotch into my knee as he leaned over to clip some hair, that I believe, could have been reached via another position.
The topic of sex continued. He described how he used to pleasure his first wife, the mother of the barber shop’s owner, how he would “Get her juiced” by “Eating her like a peach” and that her current husband was clearly underperforming due to her constant state of irritation.
“I think she wants me to fuck her hard, she keeps coming by,” he continued “But I’m not going to. I have a new wife, it’s hard enough to keep her satisfied, which I do”
As he said this he began to more aggressively gyrate against my knee. I, uncomfortable in my current situation, chose to close my eyes, pretended to sleep and hope the haircut would end soon.
But he was not to be fooled, or rather, simply did not care for me to rest, as he loudly and aggressively began asking about my sex life. I evaded the question, describing instead my desire to be reunited with someone in Yerevan I had left behind.
“But, you get yours, right? You look like you give it hard,” he responded, ignoring my desire to evade the subject.
“Sure,” I replied with no enthusiasm.
“Yeah you do,” he commented, again grinding inappropriately on me, “like an Armenian.”
Not knowing what “Like an Armenian” meant, I fell into silence, allowing him to speak and molest until, thankfully, the haircut was over. Looking in the mirror, I examined this haircut I suffered for; a haircut that was neither exceptional nor awful, but nonetheless represented the high cost I had paid for mediocrity.
After money was exchanged, and we were about to part ways, my foot already passing the threshold of the shop, he called out to me loudly and said:
“If you can make that girl of yours cum, she’ll be with you forever.”
And I left, sitting in the car, driving to work, ignoring the loose hair itch as I wiped my knees to try and rid myself of ghostly touch of that old man’s crotch.
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