My Barber Vinnie

My barber Vinnie is anecdotal gold. He has a glass eye, a mullet and he used to be in a 9-person "black music" cover band that had no black people in it. Highlights of yesterday's haircut included:

-When the other barber Jack came in eating a tuna sandwich, Vinnie exclaimed, "Il pesce, smells like I'm up in some girl's legs here!"

-Vinnie explained to me the process of making bets through his bookie. I learned about over/under, Vegas odds and the vig. Despite all his knowledge, Vinnie lost 300 bucks this weekend. Boy was he sore! I learned curse words I never knew existed.

-Vinnie told me that if I go to Vegas, I gotta stay at the Riviera. It's the type of place where 'they know your name, they really take care of you, ya know?' Apparently the city is 'going to shit' now and Riviera is one of the last holdouts of 'old Vegas.'

-Vinnie told me what he would do to the LA Lakers girls if given half a chance-
"A weekend wouldn't be good enough for me, I tell ya. I'd need a week straight, to like, explore all the avenues!"

And yet, none of this was the most alarming part of my haircut. No, I reserve that distinction for when Vinnie told me it was time to trim my eyebrows.

"Why Vinnie, do you think I need that?"
"You wanna let me do as I see fit here?"

So I did. No jokes, please.