na foine ting

Tuesday, April 13, 2004
You'll note I linked Dan's blog to mine.

Dan's hilarious, and brilliant. And pretty much a stone fox, and that's saying something considering he doesn't play hockey.


I have a great story to tell you all about my hairstylist.

My hairstylist's name is A**** (sorry), and if you live in my area, I'll tell you where his salon is, because you have to go get your hair cut by him. In fact, if you're living in Toronto or Ohio or Vancouver or wherever (and you know who you are), you still have to come get your hair cut by him, because he's a riot and everyone in the world has to experience him just once.

And actually, he does a pretty good job on my hair.

The first thing you need to know is that A is not gay. Let's get that stereotype out of the way right now, because it's important to what happens later.

So a month or so ago A's salon got busy, and he did too many sexy haircuts in a row. He messed his back up with all the standing around and snipping and leaning and spraying and reassuring people that they looked great.

So, not having a regular chiropractor or massage therapist or anything, A did the sensible thing and looked up "massage" in the phone book.

(You see where this is going, don't you?
Well, A didn't.)

"So I found this place, 'ORIENTAL MASSAGE,'" he said. "Seemed pretty good to me, I mean, I'm Oriental, it said 'Oriental Massage,' OK, so I called them up."

It will come as no suprise to you, dear readers, that they had an appointment for him available at once. It was particularly convenient, he said, that this--how shall I say--massage studio was practically around the corner.

So A drives over there, and finds himself at a residence, rather than a place of business. You know, with things like a receptionist and... well... a storefront.

"But you know, I'm thinking," A said, "maybe they do it to save money, you know? It's expensive, having a shop, I understand being a little cheap. So I knock on the door."

(You see what's about to happen, don't you?
Well. A didn't.)

A woman answers. A bit, how shall we say, scantily clad for A's idea--in fact probably anyone's idea--of the average massage therapist, but A being who he is, he went with the flow, took off his shoes ("hell, I do that at home too," he reasoned), and went in.

And lo, there in the living room sat a number of Asian girls, all wearing lingerie.

"With nothing on underneath!" A said, with all the shock he apparently felt. "I mean, you could see their nipples and..." --gesturing-- "you know."

The woman who answered the door invited A to choose his masseusse. "There was this cute little Japanese girl," he said with enthusiasm, and I thought, "cool, they let you choose who will do the massage, so I chose, what was I supposed to do? I didn't want to seem rude or anything."

So he was led by the cute little Japanese girl into the back of the house. There was as much of a lack of massage paraphernalia, he told me, as... well... storefront.

"Just a room with some candles and a big bed," he said.

(You see where this is going, don't you?
Well. A still didn't. Or so he claims.)

[Insert here a slightly less interesting interlude which involves haggling over the charge for "full service," in which A still fails to get what he's paying for but talks his way into a bargain anyway.

Now, on to the good stuff:]

The Japanese girl told him to take of his clothes. "All my clothes?" asked A, and a moment later, in fact he said in less than thirty seconds, she had skillfully divested him of every stitch. "She was really fast," he said.

Then she told him to lie down facefirst, and according to A, got naked herself.

"And that was the worst massage I've ever gotten," A said, shaking his head. "Then the next thing I know, she takes some of the oil, and covers herself with it, and starts massaging me with her breasts!"

(You may ask here how A could continue to think he was still getting a--very unorthodox--massage.
I did. He had nothing resembling a good answer to the question.)

"Then she told me to roll over," he told me. I'm thinking, "but the hurt part is on the other side, but you know, I don't know very much about Asian massage"--yeah, but baby you're starting to get better and better acquainted, aren't you?--"so I thought 'might as well,' and rolled over."

He stopped cutting my hair, looked at me in the mirror. "You'd never guess what she did next," he said.

"Go on," I said.

"She puts a condom in her mouth!" he exclaimed. Pantomiming.


"Really," he said, and then continued to pantomime, opening his mouth and


"and the next thing I know the thing is on my--" a gesture in the region of "you know", and he straightens with an expression of utter astonishment.

"BLAM!" he exclaims, with a sudden clap of his hands. "David Copperfield! Unbelievable."

(You want to know the rest of the story.
A, fortunately, continued.)

"So you know what happened then," he said. As if I'd know, which I had, apparently far earlier in the game than he did.

(And so did you.
Which brings us to the irony of this, which has to do with who of all of us got his milk and cookies and the reason to smirk, in the end.)

There's more to this story, which maybe I'll share sometime. But suffice to say that A is somewhat wiser, and there are quite a number of working girls in the area sporting very nice haircuts.

There's only one problem.

"My fucking back still hurts," A says.

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