I found a barber shop yesterday.
No, not a beautie buffoonery spot.
Probably one reason they don't want fifteen simoleans per whack. A nominally fair eight green frogskins will suffice. Or...
Well, first off, this is the boonies. The business is nicely set up-- chair, multi-mirror angles, kids' toy-saturated waiting area and all-- in a well-converted garage.
When I walked in, I could smell dinner wafting out of the cracked kitchen access door. Good home cooking at that... [I did mention the country locale, oui?]. I was greeted by a man licking his fingers in the best 'chefs perogative' way. I was invited to sit. I was draped. And he dissappeared...
To finish cooking dinner, whilst the wife came out to take the clippers!!!
"Talk to me," she said.
So I did. Told her what I wanted, and she proceeded to provide it. While there was no wasted movement on her part-- she had dinner to get to, after all!!-- the job was neither sloppy nor rushed. And we ambled on, as in any good barber chair, with the conversing.
By the end of the cut, I'd discovered that she hosts yard sales every weekend, and is as unenamored with the current economy as any tried-and-true American out there. She isn't unopen to the idea of letting someone set up alongside and proffer their wares-- in my case, garden veggies.
And will barter to boot.
Long about time for another clip, I hope the lettuce, peas, and spinach are going strong. Leave a shredded mass of dead protien on the garage floor, a bowl of leafy greens on the kitchen counter...
And see ya next trip! Ha!
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