Before looking around the neighborhood for a barbershop, I remembered that a friend once told me of a hairdresser nearby who, if you let him jerk you off in his shop, would give you a free haircut. This type of thing has always intrigued me — I’m really very shy when it comes to sex. So I thought it might be a sort of “therapy” for me to allow him to do this and, of course, get a free haircut. So I called my friend for directions, grabbed $10 of quarters from my laundry jar (just in case it didn’t work out) and was off.
The salon was surprisingly close to where I was staying, I had passed by it countless times. Nestled between a Latino market and a Vietnamese sandwich shop, it just looked like another scruffy, little business in the area. I did remember this part of town because on the corner, nearest to the salon, was an old woman in a wheelchair begging for money. She was always there, wheeling around in circles; her dirty, gray hair, missing teeth and wrinkled face always on the lookout for a gentle soul to help her buy a sandwich. She also had a tiny, brown dog sniffing around her looking for scraps of food.
As I walked up to the salon, she spotted me and wheeled over. “Please help, son. All I need is a buck-twenty. The Chinks inside won’t give me a break.” Just as I was about to tell her “no” I made the “I have no money” sign by patting my front pockets. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that there was about $10 worth of quarters rattling around in them. “Oh... sure… here ya go.” I counted out two dollars and put it in her hand. While I did this, I noticed that her feet were bare and hanging over the edge of her seat. The big toe on her right foot was missing. It looked like it had been surgically removed. She sat thanking me and wiggling her remaining toes in anticipation as I gave her some change and went inside to get my haircut.
The inside of the salon was just as inconspicuous as the outside; six barbers chairs on either side of the room with lots of mirrors, fake plants and pages from 1980s glamour magazines taped to the walls. There were two Asian women cutting hair and a large, bald, black man sitting on a barber chair reading a newspaper. He looked up at me and instantly I knew this was the guy. He had a big, round shiny face with high-arched-plucked eyebrows. He wore a tight, black T-shirt tucked over his big belly and into his baggy jeans. He was quite voluptuous and seemed very confident as such.
“Can I halp you?”
He had some sort of Caribbean or African accent. It reminded me of one of the characters in The Little Mermaid. I forget which one.
“Yeah, I just need a quick haircut.”
He sucked in his cheeks, raised his eyebrows and sauntered over to me waving the folded newspaper by his face as if it had suddenly become warm in the room. “Oh God…” I thought, “I just gave that old woman two bucks. Now I don’t have enough to pay for the haircut! I’ve really got to make this guy happy. I just wish he was more attractive.” I asked him how much he charged. He looked me up and down.
“First we give da scalp a massage. Den, if you are comftorbal, we talk da price.”
I agreed and followed him to a small room behind the shampoo area. He opened the door and led me into the tiny, cramped room full of bookcases, hair care products and a leather office chair in the middle of it all where he asked me to sit down. I sat and tried to get cozy. It was cold in the room and I could hear the women outside talking and giggling while he closed the door behind him.
He stood behind me in the chair and started rubbing my shoulders. “You hear abbot me from someone?” he asked. “Yeah” I said “but I don’t think I have enough money.” He patted me on my shoulders and said “Dat’s ok, we work somethin’ out.” Chuckling a bit through his nose, he reached down to loosen my belt. He was having a hard time getting me unbuckled so I slid my hands beneath his and did it myself. His hands were really soft, and his big belly rubbing up against the back of my neck seemed to warm me up a bit. I un-did my belt, spread open the top of my jeans, reached inside and pulled out my penis. Thank God I was hard. He reached over, held and caressed it for a few seconds. “Mmmyyess… very nice,” he said. Out of nowhere he produced a bottle of hand lotion, squirted some on his palms and began rubbing it up and down my shaft. It felt ok, but I was starting to feel a little dirty.
Outside I could hear his co-workers speaking Chinese and giggling. It was hard for me to concentrate. After a minute or so, I got the feeling he was getting impatient. He was probably used to guys coming faster. He stopped rubbing me and asked, “Do you like bobble bot?” I assumed he meant bubble butt, I told him I did. On the shelf in front of me stood a picture with its back to us. He reached over and turned it around. It was a photo of him, naked, leaned over a bed and smiling back at the camera with his big, round, black butt taking up half of the photo. He had a big smirk on his face in the picture which reminded me of a pair of porcelain fish my parents had hung in our bathroom when I was a kid. One fish was a girl acting coy to the male fish’s advances — he had the same smirk as the guy, now rubbing lotion on my testicles. It reminded me of the time my father caught me masturbating in that bathroom. He walked in and I screamed at him, with my dick in my hand, to “get out!” Later, that day, he took me aside in the garage and tried to discuss procreation with me. “Well, first your weenie gets hard then the woman spreads her legs and you stick it in her…uh... vagina.” Then, my thoughts switched to the old lady in the wheelchair outside. I pictured her eating her sandwich: pieces of tomato, meat and fish sauce dripping all over the spot where her toe used to be and her hungry, little, dog licking it up and whimpering for more. I started fidgeting in my chair. I felt uncomfortable and the guy could tell the session wasn’t going anywhere. He stopped, took a towel, cleaned us up and walked out of the room, leaving me there with my pants open and the towel on top my head where he had thrown it.
As I buttoned-up and got myself together, I heard them all outside giggling. I walked out to the front of the salon looking at the floor, trying not to draw attention to myself. As I approached the door to leave, the man reached out to me from behind the counter, patted me on the back and winked. It made me feel a little less pathetic. I thanked him for his time and left with my groin nicely moisturized, my pockets full of quarters and no haircut.
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