Haircuttus

I went to the barber again today. Yep that's right, a professional haircut on my head. I'm wearing one.

As I waited for my turn in the swivel chair I listened to the barber talk to some old mingers about swine flu and the free vaccination being offered by the government. From a small survey, listening to two old guys in a barber shop, I can safely say that the majority of the population believe that swine flu will "probably kill you but something is going to kill you and cancer will probably get you first". They both had colds. One said that he had the "90 day virus that was going around" and the other said that he got sneezed on in the supermarket. They both stressed to the barber that they did not have the pig mucus. Getting sneezed on is probably one of the worst experiences ever. A constellation of warm wet lung butter spittle all over your eyes, nose and lips. It's enough to make a man drop to his knees and pray for a stinging yellow dettol rain cloud to cleanse all pores and wage mass germicide.

Anyway, at the barber there's a massage chair. A big leather thing that probably uses the same things that makes a mechanical bull buck. I thought they were only bought by chronic masturbators who watch motor sport/Australian Idol and crank the sucker to rough road as they journey to jerky-town. There's a sign that reads"Not for pregnant women or children under 16". That's serious massage. It costs $2 for 5 minutes. The barber said that a guy came in "and put 22 bucks in and sat in the chair until it broke. He was a big fat guy and he was leaning hard into it. You gotta sit forward! Not back! He was happy though. He'd bought 60 bucks in two dollar coins and said it was still cheaper than getting one down the road". There's a place down the road called Bikini Girls. It's a massage parlour. I wonder if that's what he meant. Probably. He sounds like a perve. Who gets a massage for and hour at the barber? This country is full of creeps.

The Bull Twang and the Pea

Recently I've been getting my haircut at a barber. Like an old school barber with a proper chair, weightlifting magazines and pictures of Elvis. The guy touches your haircut up with a hot cut-throat razor. After I get my hair cut I feel like going out and busting a cop in the keester and then speeding off on my motorbike (which I will probably do a sweet wheelie on and a wicked skid).

The best part though is talking to the barber. He's not that old - probably mid thirties, and he likes to talk filth. This really appeals to my interests. There is nothing I enjoy more than talking bull twang. The barber told me that his mate, who is littler than him I may add (he showed me where he came up to him - only the chest), drank 4 beers an hour on Grand Final day from 10 in the morning until 12 that night and wasn't even drunk. Yep, he said he was sober. I enjoyed this snippet of bull twang.

The barber went on to tell me that the guy was really fit and had a weight room in his back shed with a 40inch television that supposedly plays music videos while he works out. The barber said this was untrue. He said that he knows that he watches porn on it. The weightlifting friend said that he doesn't and that he had never masturbated. The barber thought this was a preposterous notion. "He locks that door so his daughters don't walk in on him stroking it. It's bullshit, especially when you're younger you're like 'what does this thing do?' my sons three and he's always pulling it out. I said 'you're going to be a flasher when you grow up!' he's always pointing it at the girls. There's a lot things you do when you're three that would get you locked up if you did them as an adult." I agreed. If you crapped your pants in the freezer section of Woolworths as a 25 year old Colin Barnett would probably have you thrown in jail without a trial.

He said that he'd discussed his friends outlandish claims of self chastity at the casino with a group of friends. His wife said she had never done it either and "my cousin who talks about it all the time, he doesn't care who's is around, was like 'What? You don't ever flick your pea?".

So I got a new dirty phrase 'flick your pea' (I'm not sure if I'll be able to say this ever though. It sounds pretty wrong. I guess the wronger they are - the better). I also got a haircut and had a chat about colostomy bags or "a bag for an arse" as the barber said. Win win situation.