Tony

Torture, pure torture I tell you.
A little black hair brushes accross my flesh, causing the friction. And it is the slight friction that causes it. Funny yes, that the hair was so close to falling and not hitting me but now it did hit me. Funny yes, to me. But I think many things are funny. But this is not funny.
"And you said that you like to eat pizza."
"Yes," I replied. Very short-like. Like I didn't want to talk to the bastard. Why did I have to talk to him anyway? I mean big deal? Just to be civil I guess. He's got to earn his tip. He was usually really good with me, really good. I always left pleased.
Torture, pure torture I tell you.
The man massages my head very softly, so tenderly, as if he was holding a rose and didn't want to break the petals, but wanted to feel the softness on his fingertips.
"Have you ever tried this Greek's around the corner over here?"
"Ya, they used to like be my favorite pizza but one time when I was drunk they didn't let me use the bathroom."
"Oh Ya?"
"Ya, sure. And then I refused to eat there for a year and then I found out I wasn't in love with their pizza anymore."
A heartbreaking conversation I know. I know very well reader. If you can't tell whom was talking to whom don't worry about it.
A delightful conversation. Why do we have to talk during this?
Torture just torture.
His talking just prolonged the inevitable. But he liked to do what he was doing maybe. Maybe he was looking for a little more.
Me my feet propped up. Him moving around my head so effortlessly, so graceful.
And the great sound of that activity. I don't know who loved it more, him or me.
I only do it like twice a year. It is sacreligious you know. To do such a thing. So unnatural, especially with a man. But that's who I am. I think a man does a better job than a woman anyway. They know the ins and outs of what makes up a man's head and how to treat the neck. If only women were this good.
"So do you go out much?"
"Ya, but I'm not 21 so I can't go to the bars."
"Really? You look much older than 21."
"Really? Does the receding hairline tip you off?"
"A little"
There he goes again. Talking and talking.
Torture, pure torture.
He's prolonging the invetible. Prolonging the finish. That glorious finish. When that gel is all patted down into my dark hair, all over my head. I can't wait. And he always finishes by messing with the neck, which always gives me the shivers right after his beautiful performance.
After 45 minutes, the longest I had ever had to get finished, he takes off my bib and a sigh of relief on my part. I take that itch away, I brush that hair off my right lobe. No more torture, no torture.
tony the barber.