Redneck Detective, Barber With Child, and a Convulsing Me!
Written by: Alex Sandell
Saturday night. What better time to get a haircut? There's a 20-minute wait, which is weird, cuz I kinda thought I had come up with a unique hair-cutting time, but apparently not. There's only two barbers (sorry "hair-stylists," the only "PC" I'm really into, is my computer), two people getting their hair "done," plus myself and this really, really overweight redneck in a really, really tight "Alabama" t-shirt.
I say "hi" to the "Alabama T-shirt" guy; he just sits silently. Not feeling offended, but feeling sorta like I want to be, I decide to say "hi" again. The redneck waits a few seconds, looking around, desperately hoping I'm talking to somebody else, rolls his eyes in a "holier-than-people-who-aren't-wearing-'Alabama'-T-shirts" kind of way, and says, under his breath, "alrighty, then."
"Alrighty, then?" Re-e-e-eeeeeeally? Suddenly I'm transported back to my "Ace Ventura" days. I never actually had these days, but these days sort of had me. Everyone under 30, running around doing horrible imitations of a fairly okay Jim Carrey movie. Only this redneck did so bad, I'm wondering if it just sort of slipped out, accidentally, like a small fart. I decide that I'm not feeling too confrontational, after-all, and just sit back and read "Good Housekeeping." Talk about your non-confrontational reading material. This is a joke magazine, right?
In the middle of "20 ways to keep your indoor plants happy," I'm called back. My barber is ready for me. She's knocked up. She's been that way for like 8 months. She's been my barber for about 9. No, I'm not the father. "Aleeeeeeeeeex!" She screams, bringing me back to my "last time I got my haircut" days, "where have you been?" "Nowhere," I answer, realizing I mixed-up the question with, "where are you going?"
I sit down, and get one of those gigantic bibs placed over me. As a teenager, those "bibs" were my salvation. I had an extremely sexy barber that used to cut my hair (she retired, when she got pregnant . . . it really wasn't me, I swear), and, being the young adolescent I was, erections came rather easily, especially when conversing with extremely sexy barbers that were about to get pregnant by somebody that wasn't me. The barber-bib did a miraculous job of covering my "excitement." (Then again, this is me we're talking about. A fig-leaf would have probably done the trick.)
After getting the bib placed over my body, and momentarily losing focus on where I was going with this article, my cerebellum comes flying back into the present as I begin to describe what hair-style I want ("exactly like the last 7 times"). My description is interrupted when the fat "Alabama" dude is called back. "We're ready for you, Fat Alabama Dude," the other barber yells. "Alrighty, then," Fat Alabama Dude replies. I'm getting my hair cut with Ace Ventura, 150 pounds later. Yikes.
My super-nice, albeit, knocked up to the hilt, and slightly insecure, barber begins snipping my hair. I lean my head back into the chair, and start yet another round of small-talk, to dilute even further the evolutionary process of man. About halfway through, the "snip" of the scissors grows into the ROAR of helicopter blades, and things start looking really strange. "Alrighty, then" I hear Ace Ventura: Redneck Detective blurt out. "alrighty then. alrighty thEN. ALRIGHTY THEN!" His voice begins to meld into the whirring helicopter blades, and I feel myself going unconscious . . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
I wake up in a foreign place, with a big bib tied around my neck, and a fat dude, pregnant chick, and confused lady staring down at me. "What happened?" I ask. The words echo throughout my head. "You had a seizure," the unrecognizable pregnant chick answers. This gets me to thinking about this puppy we had, a long time ago.
It was small and brown, with gigantic, floppy, ears. So cute, you wanted to patent it. It would tilt its head whenever you called it to you, not quite sure what you meant by "come here, puppy, puppy." We were only "baby"sitting it for a day. We decided to take it out on a boat ride. It loved it. It "yipped" while "yapping," tried to drink down the little sparkles of water flying up at it, and peed all over me, when I held it in my lap.
Everyone laughed, including me. How can you scold a puppy? Especially one that turns around and innocently licks you in the face, as an act of forgiveness. Damn, that was a good day.
". . . Okay, Fat Alabama Dude, all done." The confused lady says. "Alrighty, then," Fat Alabama Dude replies, while pulling money out of his wallet. "What should we do," the barber with child asks me. I remember where I am. "Nothing. Don't worry about it. I'll be okay." I hear an ambulance pull up, and realize what they've already done.
The driver guy runs in, and I tell him it was all a mistake. He gets really mad, and walks back outside, mumbling something to himself about how his night has been wrecked. He looks miserable, everyone does. Actually, everyone did, myself included, even before this rotten turn of events. I begin thinking about that puppy again.
He was smashed by a truck, four days after we gave him back to his rightful owners. When I found out, I got a lump in my throat. Everyone that dog touched during the 24 hours we spent with him felt empty.
If a puppy can give you that much love; bring you that much happiness, all in a day, think what a human is capable of. Imagine what we could do, if we tried. Think what we've done. What went wrong?
All contents, with exception of the little running dog, Copyright 1998 Alex Sandell [All Rights Reserved]. Copy this, and you'll hear "Alabama" in your dreams, where not even earplugs can protect you!
I don't get it. Send me back to the table of brains!