Show me round your fruit cage

I like hairdressers.

The smell of gin. The stray hair net that gets me all hot and bothered. The surround mirrors reflecting the back of my head into infinity. The black aprons that catch the nipped hairs and dandruff. The basins to rest your head while your scalp gets scorched by the chatty snipper. The gang of sexy, trendy hairdressers who look at you when you walk in as if you were yokel from a bygone century. The lederhosen on the men. The mounds of hair on the floor like a sexually fantasy gone awry. The ilk and milky shampoo and conditioner that leaves you with an axe to grind. The short-skirt wearing hairdresser who continually bends over to pick up your locks and asks in a seductive voice: “Did I cut off too much?”

Barbers are for men who fear the touch of a woman. It’s the homo-erotic equivalent of the Roman baths but without the marble busts.

I don’t need to be trimmed by a man. They, men, do enough truncating as it is to the locks of my creativity without shearing my head, too.

Here’s a quick “True or False” quiz:

1. Did one of the Queen’s corgis dig up a lost page of the Magna Carta and sell it at Sotheby’s?

2. Did Johnny Cash have an affair with a hybrid rose?

3. Did Margaret Thatcher ever call Denis the “leader of the opposition”?

4. Did Nixon wear a bridal gown at his impeachment because it brought out his fuzz?

5. Did John Lennon bugger Ringo over a misunderstanding about aphids?

6. Did Marilyn Monroe date Tintin?

7. Did Batman ever smell like guano?

8. Did Genghis Khan ever hit the tax man?

9. Did the Duke of Warwickshire ever leave his county?

10. Do marines tie posies to their peckers because it keeps them awake on dangerous missions?

And here’s a list of relatives who had  subscriptions to The Social Doctrines of Marxism and his Mother’s Faint Praise.

Uncle Willy “Cloister” Monadnock. His idea of a good weekend was his backside in a wicker chair watching the next door neighbor burying her next victim.

And then there was Aunt Molly “Minty” Finch. Her idea of a good weekend was lying in a bed of mint with her pussy.

And Uncle Monty. His idea of fun was peeping through the cans of baked beans to get a look at the discounted items.

And Aunty Maud. Her idea of fun was poking my uncle with a stick of rhubarb to find out if liked tarts or decent women.

And Uncle Llewellyn whose idea of fun was ignoring my aunt when she would scream, “Llewellyn, you dopey bugger, your trousers are on fire!” When I visited him in the hospital, which I always did, he would wink at me and say, “See, boy, this is the way to get good food and be pampered by women.”

And Uncle Romulus. His idea of a good weekend was me locked in his coal bunker.

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