"I just feel...sexy" the homeless guy sitting

"I just feel...sexy" the homeless guy sitting next to me on the Metro said to no one in particular. His hand, surprisingly clean and immaculately groomed, slowly snaked its way

through my hair as I sat there, completely still, wondering why this homeless fellow was touching my head. I made eye contact with the lady sitting across from us and mouthed HELP

but she just ignored my pleas for help and said "before the GFC jerome used to have his own salon." The ladies comment didn't quell my concerns as his large rough hands were now

kneading the moisture out of my Afro. This man was no barber, he was a butcher. While he worked away I grabbed a jar of that blue liquid and combs and threw it as hard as I could

at the mirror. The blue liquid coated every surface with its sparkly blueness. My barber screamed and started to fizzle. That blue liquid is POISON to barbers! I plumped my afro &

thanked God that barber did wonders on my hair before melting into the boiling puddle of poison and barber goo. I hopped out of the chair and tiptoed around the mess-these shoes

were worth a fortune, after all. I left the tip tucked into the barber's apron (which was now sort of floating in the goo that was formerly the barber) and made my Big Entrance.

The frame was filigreed weirwood depicting now mythical scenes from the previous folds, and the door itself was solid oak with stained glasswork of the barber, poised with a razor.

"'Ere Barbara, that'd look well lovely in our bathroom, wouldn' it?" The dumpy tourist nudged his wife of equally gifted proportions, whose hands instinctively flew to her camera.

They photographed it. They photographed it hard. They photographed the chrome surrounding it. They photographed the marble textures. When they were done, it was a cold monument.