The barbers.

The average Scouse lad loves a good trim on the old back and sides, so much so they keep it topped up and looking fresh every week or two or simply the night they're going out in hope it might help them get their fingers wet. Unless you're one of them beauts that have been sucked into the Justin Bieber craze and have opted for a fucking Kellogs bowl to be placed on your fucking scalp.  If that's the case, just go in and ask for a fucking Home Alone.

The barbers is a trip that no one likes to take, you have no idea how busy it's gong to be and you can't walk in, see a few dickheads with ponytails, decide it's going to be a good hour wait then just get off and come back later.. because it might be even more fucking rammed Well, I can't anyway once I've opened the door that's fucking it, I'm in, it's chopping fucking time. So most of the time I get on with it, pick up a shitty 'Mens Health' magazine from April 2007 and improve my knowledge on how leotards were the norm for gymwear in California USA.

Whilst browsing these shitty pages, hoping for a slight hint of some mega bird, the queue slowly goes down. That is until, the next person getting their fucking wig chopped is a good friend of the barber, so they ignore the fact there are people, like fucking me, waiting and ocassionally stop mid-cut to have a fucking talk about the holidays they aren't goin on this year or how their S Reg Citreon Saxo failed it's MOT.

30 minutes later...

The time comes, it's now my turn to get my wonderful locks cut, go for it mr barber man, fucking sort this head out lad, make me look smart. (I say all of this in my head) when instead he asks "so, what do you want?".... What do I fucking want? I've been coming here since I had to sit on that fucking plank of wood to higher myself up, I've had the same haircut since 9T4 and you ask me what I fucking want? (I also say this in my head) and reply with "2 on the back and sides, trimmed on the top."

So, the cunt starts cutting, no conversation has started, I'm not going to make one, I can't fucking stand him, he looks like a pervert and I can't be arsed distracting him from my heavenly bonse to the point where he fucks my head right up and I end up walking out like fucking Jedward on meth.

Now shit starts getting awkward, the twats chopping away like Edward fucking scissor hands, taking no notice to the fact he's rubbing his fucking 70 year old gooch all over my knee-cap. Yer, sound that mate, I'm not going to wash these trackies now because I love the smell of chopped hair and saggy bollocks all over them. I'm going to sniff the fuck out of them when I get in.

I sit there, wondering why every fucking time I come the barbers the fucking bird isn't there to sort me out, she spends time and effort, almost like she would with fucking plants or some other affectionate shit. I wouldn't mind a bit of slice sliding along my hamstring like.

20 minutes later...

Anyway, dickhead finishes my haircut, grabs a mirror, puts it to the back of my head.. and still not saying a word he lifts his eyebrows as if to say "sound, yer?" I reply with the same expression. Pay him and walk out like I've been abused.

This cycle continues every 2 weeks.

#TSB