If my hair wasn’t so out of control, I’d cancel my appointment at the barber shop tomorrow. I’m just thinking that it might be my last chance in a while to a pro trim, and I might regret passing it up after a couple weeks have passed and I’ve turned into a caveman. I reckon I can handle it; it’s just that my barber tends to ask a lot of questions. And they’re not interesting questions, either.
When I went in last time, he kept asking what was wrong. I was like, dude, this is just my face. But he kept asking and asking, so eventually I told him I was feeling grim about the impending global pandemic, which we’ve known was coming for ages – at least since 2011’s Contagion, which no one seems to remember except me. I thought that would shut him up, but no – it was just the beginning of a whole new line of enquiry.
He asked me what I did for a living and if I was worried about my livelihood, so I made up a story about being in the car repairs business. Malvern, fortunately, has a few workshops around, so I figured he wouldn’t be able to trace me to any given one and find out that I was telling porkies. I have to say, I was pretty chuffed (and amused) that the story seemed to go over as fact, although I did feel a bit bad when he started getting all concerned for me.
When he started telling the other customers to think of me next time they need a mechanic around Malvern East, I realised I had to get out of the hole of lies I’d dug myself into, so I started talking about conspiracy theories. That finally shut him up, and I wished I’d thought of it to begin with.
With any luck, he’ll have forgotten all about it, and I can just be a regular guy getting a haircut.