I had intended to spend the afternoon playing the horses today after walking my little Hammer around the shores of Real Bad lake in the morning hours. But after a couple of wins early on the card and a lovely meal of baked oysters I decided to get while the getting was good.
On the way home I decided to get my hair cut. I have a real nice barber. Her name is Shelly and she is the only good female barber I have ever had. When I first visited her shop it was her dad who cut my hair. He seemed a little tanked, as barbers often are, but I returned because the shop had a pool table and had my hair cut by Shelly for the first time. Sonja approved so I have been returning every couple of months ever since.
The barber shop is in the old part of town near where I live. At night whores linger in the wet shadows. When I stopped in today there was a customer and a half wait so I went around the corner to a bar where I guzzle beer now and then. On the way to the bar a man asked me, "Hey. I'll trade you a joint for a cigarette." Those were eight words I thought I would never hear put together in my life. And I do not even go for the green gold any more!
The beer in the bar tasted good. My country makes wicked beer these days. There was no one much in the bar, just a few pensioners complaining about this and that.
In the barber shop Shelly, a customer I had not met before and myself swapped gambling stories. Shelly is a pool shark, just like her dad; the customer claimed to have driven across Nevada once without having to pay for gas or food on small slot machine winnings; I had paid for my lunch, a haircut and few beers from my two bets.
Shelly cut my hair short - "not quite a cop cut." I like to keep my appearance neat. That way all sorts of people will talk to me so I can write about what they might have to say. I do not live in a cool city, quite the opposite in fact, but there may one day be some cool stories to pass on as the days float by on our never ending river of rain.