I Suppose It's Time I Started Looking Around For A New Barber

It’s probably something of a red flag when your barber has a Superman logo tattooed on his forearm. And this is probably not the sort of monologue you want to hear from some guy while he’s cutting your hair:

I’m not shitting you, I’m at the end of my fucking rope here. I know damn well that people look at me when I keep shaking my head like crazy, but it’s like I’m trying to erase something from my brain, you know? Like my brain is a fucking Etch-A-Sketch. Seriously, you wouldn’t believe some of the bullshit I’ve been through. My ex-wife has put me through the wringer, I shit you not. You’d think I was made of money. Hello? Did I happen to mention when I married you that I was a fucking barber? I’m pretty sure I did.

I had a guy in here earlier, and when I told him that I was at the end of my fucking rope, he says, “Well, from the looks of things, I don’t suppose you’re lying.” So, okay, it’s that obvious, okay? I’m not a guy who can keep shit bottled up inside. Like I always told the old lady, “What you see is what you get. I’m not hiding anything.”

I’m serious, though, everywhere I turn it seems like there’s a brick wall waiting for me, and the punks in my neighborhood have spray-painted the word “Fuck” in big red letters right across that brick wall. It’s like every day I wake up from one nightmare and slip right into another. The same shitty food, day after day. The same fucking undercover deadbeats shuffling by my house, the same bogus utility truck parked at the curb out front, the guy behind the wheel pretending to read a newspaper.

You think I don’t know what’s going on? Do these people really think I’m that fucking stupid? I ask my next-door neighbor if he’s ever seen anybody suspicious-looking lurking around in my backyard when I’m not around, and he gets all nervous and says he hasn’t seen a thing. Then, a couple nights later, I notice a small red light in the dark window of his bedroom, clearly the battery lights of a video camera that’s pointed right at me.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’m this close —this fucking close [gripping a fistful of my hair with one hand, he shoves his scissors in front of my eyes and executes one quick, aggressive snip]– to snapping.