Life at TJ's Place
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
This weekend I saw the woman who used to cut my hair back when I was about 21 years old, and I used to be in love with her so I’m going to tell this story about her because it’s fun, and because that’s why I’m here, yo.

She was 25 years old at the time and had recently divorced, which made her seem, to me, to be more mature. She was pretty, blonde and what I thought to be very shy and quiet. (This last paragraph should have started with “Dear Penthouse.”)

She had her own little salon in the basement of her condo, and the first couple times I went for a haircut we were both kind of shy and just made small talk. It’s easy in a salon with lots of other gabby people around, but it’s another thing trying to break the ice with a woman when you’re alone in her basement, just the two of you, and she’s got her hands on you.

The third time I went, she washed my hair and rinsed it in her sink. I was still reclined back with my neck on the edge of the sink. She had this huge bottle of conditioner on the counter above my head, and when she pumped it twice, most of it ricocheted off the side of her hand and splattered against the side of my face. Now, mind you, this was at a point when there had not even been the slightest hint of flirting between us. She put her hand to her mouth, like oh my God, and we both just kind of froze there for a few seconds. I'm laying there looking like the money shot in a porn film with big splats of some dude’s jizz all over my face. So I started laughing, and then so did she, which meant she at least got the joke. I told her I never dreamed I’d be on the receiving end of one of those and she really laughed and her face got even redder. I accused her of doing it on purpose and she was still laughing when she swore she didn’t. I wanted to sleep with her right there. That one little moment was like having 10 haircuts in terms of moving the hairstylist/client relationship forward. When she wiped the conditioner off my face with a wet wash cloth, I was in love.

Is it normal for a guy to fall in love with every woman who’s ever cut his hair? Am I the only one? Is it the hair salon smells, or all the incidental touching? I’ve had maybe 8 in my day and I’ve been very attracted to every one, except the old lady who briefly cut my hair in college, and the old dude who cut my hair one time when I was in 6th grade and kept trying to rub his cock on my elbows, and I ended up sitting in the chair with my arms crossed and my shoulders scrunched together.

Monday, August 02, 2004
Saturday afternoon was a typical Saturday afternoon. One bartender, about 8 dancers, me, one waitress who was also training our new waitress, two security. This is a nice time of the day, in the late afternoon before the major Saturday night crowd starts coming in, and the Saturday night dancers start shuffling in.

Walt came over to me at about 4:30 and said, “Hey, heads up. A bus just pulled in.” I hate those words. I know I should get excited for the club and the dancers and everybody, because we’re all going to make money from this, but I hate busses. You look into the parking lot and you never know what’s behind all those tinted windows. I could handle it better if they came in shifts, ten guys every ten minutes, until the bus was empty. I thought about going out and asking the driver this. But to go from just this lazy Saturday afternoon where there’s one dancer on stage and you can carry on a conversation in the booth to absolute bedlam with 60 guys pouring through the doors, already drunk, is very taxing on the old Kevster’s nerves.

It was a typical drunken outing of a bunch of suburban white guys. They golfed in the morning, now the strip club, then a baseball game. Some genius had scheduled three activities where drinking ran a close second in importance to the actual activity.

They entered the club like a drunken human tidal wave. Men in groups are very excited when they enter a gentleman’s club. They filled every room in the club. We had one waitress, a waitress trainee, and one bartender. I played long songs so I could jump behind the bar and help serve. Our little waitress trainee, who was still in the shy stage and was definitely not ready to go wander out into the club with a tray on her own yet, looked like she was going to cry when I said something like, “Here comes your trial by fire.” We opened up three stages and our eight girls basically danced non-stop for the next hour and a half. I would start a song, then run over and tend bar for three minutes, then run back to the booth, start another song, give my “blah-blah-blah,” run back to the bar. Sometimes I’d let two songs go back-to-back. It was a madhouse.

Ninety minutes later it was over. Everybody collapsed. Our new waitress came over to the booth and stood with me for a little bit. Have you ever seen someone laugh and cry kind of at the same time? Like she was crying, but she would crack up laughing sometimes? That’s what she looked like. She called the bus guys a “bunch of fucking jerks,” and I told her she was going to fit in just fine here.

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