Haircut

Whoa, what the fuck. He’s cut that way too short. My own fault for daydreaming rather than keeping an eye on the old duffer I suppose. He’s made me look like a right chav, just what I need in court tomorrow. It’s too late to do anything about it. He can forget about getting a tip, ‘cos that ain’t gonna happen.

He shuts off the clippers, gingerly placing them to one side before vigorously brushing the hair from my shoulders. I look at his handiwork in the mirror. It doesn’t make it any better. Fuck’s sake. If I go down tomorrow it’ll be this prick’s fault.

“How’s that sir?” He asks limply, removing the lime-green protective sheet from me as if performing a magic trick.

“Yeah, great. Perfect,” I lie.

“That’ll be twelve pounds please.”

I rummage around in my pocket bringing out a tenner and two crumpled fives. I hand him fifteen quid. “Cheers, keep the change.”

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