Feeling a little fluffy Friday, I drove to the barber. I chose the Ferrarri Saloon, because my head is like that race car (sleek! fast! hot! needs constant care!) and what better place to get a haircut than a drinking establishment?
Oh, right: Ferrari Salon.
My man didn't speak much English, and I didn't speak any of whatever he's speaking (Ferrarish, maybe?) but I made it clear that I needed a haircut. At any rate, that I wanted a haircut.
Now, Laura usually cuts my hair, and she does a fine job. But, you know, being able to mow a townhouse lawn doesn't exactly make one a master gardener, if you get my drift, and Ferrari dude was good! He didn't just run the mower back and forth. He held the clipper in one hand and a blade in the other, moving both like Edward Scissorhands. I swear he cut each individual hair, one by one.
Scissorhands now points to my 2 week beard stubble, as in "Let me perform my magic on that, too!"
I said "Yes".
I'm feeling great, my head is even sleeker, fast, hotter than before, so I'm going to keep saying yes to whatever he asks.....
This is usually not a good idea.
But, so, the facial began. I haven't had a facial before, certainly not one given by a guy speaking Ferrarish, so I didn't know what to expect.
I got various potions and lotions that tingled, or stung, or stunk, or abraded, or sometimes all. First I think he began with the "asbestos and arsenic" paste (reenacted above).
Then he used a blowtorch to dry it, as if I were the creme he would brulee.
Ok, at this point I'm thinking that he may be doing all this for the amusement of the other six guys in the Saloon, none of whom are either are cutting or being cut. I'm suspecting he charged admission:
"Come on, come all, see how I can afflict the foreigner, who will still thank me and pay me!"
More potions, more lotions:
I was beginning to feel like a cheeseburger.
A cheeseburger to go, for that matter, after he put my head in the bag.
A steamed cheeseburger, even. Ferrari dude would stick a hose under the bag, fill it with steam to the point that my eyes were beginning to poached like eggs....
Is that laughter I hear from the audience?
Some of his ministrations struck me as unusual. But what did I know? I had said yes.
I was becoming more and more suspicious. My eyes were also beginning to swell shut.
Every so often, he would spritz my face without warning: water-boarding lite.
Two hours later I paid Ferrari dude as much, almost, as Sirish makes in a week.
Was it worth it? Well: My skin was Oprah-smooth, and remains so, mainly, after a couple days.
Sometimes it's good to say Yes. The guys applauding the show thought so.