She is a Supercut anomaly. A young Latina with a firm, slender body and a wry smile. The excess make-up added a well-deserved dirty factor and her shirt, a dark lace-up-the-front piece, not only highlighted her breasts, but left little to the imagination of how perfect those beauties really were. And although I couldn’t see it, I knew her lower back tat said something mischievous.
As she started on my bangs, her chest was at eye level and two inches from my face, if it wasn’t a mile. What a magnificent day. Why can’t I control my eyes? Does she know her boobs are right there? She can’t see you looking. Can she? Don’t look. Stop it. I think those are real? Look ahead. She knows you’re looking. Those are amazing. She is amazing. Stop looking. Does she need to be that close? Wow, those things are literally right there and bursting out. Look ahead. Why is she so close? Oh my God, she knows. The little minx knows exactly what she is doing . . .
And in that instant, my mind harked back to the days of Thailand 1999, where for a few extra baht, a haircut and a straight-edged razor shave ended with a cold water clean-up of a half-ass handy.
And then it happened. Maybe it was the 80’s music, the visions of Thailand, the boobs in the face or the blow-dry dust off, but it happened. I was dead in the water. The haircut was over, and it was high-noon.
An exaggerated movement from the chair to the floor made me believe was enough of a distraction to pull off the nonchalant adjustment. I skipped the tea tree head massage, tipped her a well deserved extra dollar, and smiled as I walked out the door. The sun was shining.
