Oh, My Stars

I know these things about my barber:

He refers to his wife as “the battle-ax.” Or, alternately, as “the fucking battle-ax.”

Though uncommonly foul-mouthed, even by my debased standards, his favored exclamation remains the sturdy and old-fashioned, “Oh, my stars!”

The project of his old age is reading all thirteen volumes of the Lewis and Clark Expedition journals.

When he was in the army in Korea he got more tail than a dickweed like me could even dream about, and he never paid any woman a red cent.

And: Oh, my stars, has he ever heard some stories. He should write a book. He really should.

The other day, as I sat waiting for my haircut, the old fellow in the chair said, “I don’t know who to believe anymore.”

“I don’t believe anybody,” the barber said.

“Not even me?” the customer asked.

“Fuck. Are you shitting me? How long have I been cutting your hair? I’d have to be an even bigger fool than I am to believe a word that comes out of your mouth.”