Oh Barber!

"Oh Barber, My barber,
what evil grippeth thy mighty heart, when i entereth thy store?"

OK, admittedly that was quite a sad attempt at the Shakespearan, but seriously, i need to raise this question to The Barbers of The World.. "what is your bitch with me man? Why do you arduously contrive, at every given opportunity to give me a haircut that would remind one of the beleaguered Third World? Have i offended the lot of you in some way? Well if not, here you go fuckers!"

Yes, the Iron has indeed entered my soul. So let me get down to the details of this funereal charade.

Usually, when my hair is looking(and feeling) absolutely top-notch, inviting praise and jealousy from Friends and Foe for its resplendence, or otherwise reminding people how hair has evolved from being just a "Growth-on-the-Head" to a sublime beauty tool, my parents order me to put it under the cleaver. There is the customary argument & taunting in the home for 3-something weeks & when domestic dissonance reaches its climax, father whoops out the scissor and threatens to do something with the hair, should I not hand over a sizeable amount of it to the barber within 10 hours.

Alone,sad and desolate, I begin my tedious and melancholic trudge toward the devil's workshop. Inconsolable, the Hair looks as beautiful as never before, as if it were its Swan-Song. As i arrive at the barber's lair, it starts to itch, not unlike a sacrificial goat just before Prosecution. And when my turn comes, the Hellion has a cannibal look in his eye much like the butcher on the aforementioned sacrifice. Speciously, he calms me down. Flatteringly, he asks me if i have a certain haircut in mind and Deviously gets down to business.

I am quite a considerate human being. I study the psychology of the individual & find it in my heart to search for a shred of good in the most Hitlerean of men. "He might have a domestic sadness", i say. And i let him butcher my hair thinking, "well atleast HE's happy!" and let the savagery continue.

When i get up and look at the funereal individual staring out of the mirror, my immediate thought is to drop all the mercenary niceties and lacerate him with the same hell-condemned scissor. And yet again, my inability to be rude intervenes. The barber never deserves the hard-earned money of my father's, but a dislocated jaw for what he did! My father's aforementioned threat seems so seductive now! Was i a dictator, i'd give the barber the Chair or some similar contrivance of torture for his rapacious act. But can I? NOO! That damned "good Heart" cuts my path and speaks sermons of ethical behavior, philanthropy and "taking the "High Road". Bleeeaaaaahh

I look in the mirror again ar my "Buddhist-Monk-Hair-do" and think that taking the "High Road" would be something that someone i look like right now would most certainly do!(the buddhist monk, you retards!)