Blood rushes to your cheeks. The anxiety is like a dull spike in the back of your head. People are staring at you, and God knows how they feel!
You storm off to the barber, trying your best to appear calm and collected, moving to the entrance of his shop. You peek around the corner abit, and see him finishing his lunch-a sandwich and a beer.
Belching, he stands up and smiles. "Oh, ya decided ta finish up? Please, make yourself at home!"
With much trepidation, you sit on the chair. Your gonna have that bozo shave off that mop, or else!
Scizzor in hand, gleaming of the light, his ruddy face barely containing his excitement