Congratulations Haircut Man!

Walking down the street, the pole will be like a siren call.  You'll step through the door and sit down in a chair,  heels to jesus as it were, smock arrayed across your chest, scissors resting by your ear.  His voice, barely coherent, will murmur.

"Haircut what you like kind?"

You'll shrug and say, "Surprise me."

He won't understand.  You'll repeat yourself two more times before his co-worker, a burly Italian American man, shouts something in broken Italian that he gets.

"Thanks Veenee," your barber will mumble at his co-worker before he begins to trim and tram and trumble about your ears, letting hair fall and fly about.  In moments, he'll have transformed the unruly mop atop your head to a carelessly arranged array of filaments subtly constructed to maximize your appeal to the opposite sex.

"Mahnamuh Saul," he'll murmur as he dusts off your neck.  "Pleasuh combat."

You'll thank him, inform him of your plans to one day combat, give him a twenty dollar tip and step out into the street with a bounce in your step.  You won't get more than thirty feet before you're dive tackled by a young woman.

She'll be trying to remove her shirt with one hand while she undoes her pants with the other.  She'll be making animal sounds while you, in classic you form, just let shit happen around you.

After five minutes of work, she'll be ready and you'll be ready and she'll be easing your half-erect penis inside her, but alas, it will not be meant to be.  A sudden onrush of steel and plastic will collide with you and her and the screech of brakes will come too late and you'll be trapped, pinned there for fifteen minutes underneath the corpse of a ravenous woman straight out of an Axe commercial while paramedics try to pry you out.  As they strap you and your ruined penis into a stretcher to take you to a hospital, they'll compliment you on your hair.

"Thanks," will be the best you can muster in response.  "I got it cut by Saul down the way."

Congratulations Haircut Man!