My barber is this guy called Salde. I'm not even a hundred percent if that's his real name. He's been my barber since I was about five years old or maybe even less. He can probably pick me out of a crowd by my hair or just feel the shape of my scalp and he'd know its me. He's one of those old kinds of barbers. He just stands there cutting my hair all quiet, stoic even. Maybe we'd do a little small talk. Maybe. He cuts the hair exactly the way you tell him. I'd tell him different ways of cutting my hair sometimes just to mess around or tell him he can't use a razor this time but only scissors. No problems.
Barbers today aren't even called barbers. They're self-styled stylists. One time when I foolishly had my haircut in one of those "salons" instead of old Salde's chair, it was horrible. The stylist, all of them are gay by the way, (no exceptions) just ruined everything. My hair was all long on one end and thin on the other. He was trying to make it look like I had bangs or something. It looked like a pile of horse dung. Why would I need to look like some emo faggot? That's what he was going for I think. Where are the old manly barbers? All we have are gay stylists now. (all stylists are gay) Where are the old barbers who would twist your head at an angle to forcefully, yet gracefully, cut that tangled mess of weeds you call hair? The pussification of the modern male continues.
I blame that "Queer Eye" show. Damn them.
