My brown ass is gonna plop on a deluxe leather seat when I get home. The one that vibrates and has these built-in massage elbows. Meantime, Mama-san’s gettin’ ready her tools to give my ten brats the business. Deluxe package, she’ll ask?
What do you think, Mama-san?
Mama-san’s eyeballs poke out her mask in the shape of a smile.
Fuck it, manicure too.
The clippers are out. That sharp, medieval thing for scraping out all that nasty toe tartar–check. I can’t wait for that ticklish cheese grater part for underneath my feet, either. There’s a corn there, compliments of the Arctic. Mama-san’s gonna get it with deluxe-sized aggression. It’s deluxe day, goddamnit.
My next appointment– Travis the Flambuea. He’s got a lair for a studio. It’s dressed as gay as he is. Meticulous. Color schemed. Calm. Dark. A mini water fountain. Huge fronds. His dainty little 16-ounce blind poodle that usually greets me greets me. I wonder before every shearing, though, if the little fucker will ever expire. I’m not that hairy for the record. “The usual,” I say.
Travis pops the black heads on my back, too. The ones I can’t reach. If that’s not “deluxe,” I sure as hell don’t know what is. Travis does manzilians too, but I worry there’ll be some funny stuff if I assume the mandatory compromising positions. I shouldn’t. I’m straight. He’s a professional manscaper. A pet doula to boot (see immortal blind poodle), a self-avowed man diva who by the way prefers black men. Is there any better time in our civilized society to be a black man?
I digress.
Travis wouldn’t be in the business as long as he has by doing funny stuff, besides. Either way, I’ll just have mama-san take me to Brazil town someday should I ever decide to go there. She does every other gross thing.
Time for my haircut. My good man Thaddeus knows mens’ cuts. Young blood’s a fan now, too. Thaddeus is a smoov, cool egg with lots of records of old funk and R&B. He’ll run late about 20-25 minutes. I don’t care. I’m on deluxe time. We’ll catch up. He’ll spend a half hour on just my beard, double triple that on conspiracy theories. Sometimes I have to steer him back to my hair. “Where do I go again to get this taken care of?” I ask, pointing to where it’s receded some (okay, significantly) this last couple of years or so since life got turbulent for me. Age I suppose has a say in it, too. “You know the one where there’s a resort to go with.” I don’t know when yet, but I’m going. It might have to wait ’til young blood’s out of college. It’s somewhere in Peru, I think.
How’s it go in French, again? Eh voila? Whatever. I’m a new man. Pedicured, freshly coiffed, manscaped. I’ll take care of my own junk for the time being.
I pull into my empty house now. I don’t mean it like that. Young blood’ll be in school, that’s all. Life is good. I got paid. I’m in one piece. I lately have been considering a dog, but then how will I get to travel to Peru for 27-year-old hair and other exotic destinations? First world problems.
And if most of my old faithfuls shot me down all day earlier–ignoring my texts, texting they have boyfriends–well, shit, it’s nobody’s business what I resort to.
Fuck it, here’s what I’ll resort to:
I shouldn’t. But I will. I’ll text her. “You remember asking what I want for my birthday present?”
“What,” she’ll say.
A manzilian. I’ve always fantasized about a woman shaving me there. She might just do it, too, if I ask.
“You don’t remember?” I’ll say.
“What, tell me.”
I haven’t looked or felt this dandy in forever, and besides, the fresh haircut always looks best after your barber just styled it; what the hell, why not that photo shoot.
“And remember to dress slutty.”
We’ll mosey somewhere like a local beach, a seedy alleyway. She might just pull the usual. She sent me some dirty pictures while I was gone after all to get to my cockles. I’ll have to remind her, though, that it’s not like that for me but I wish that it was. She won’t give me any shit for it. She can’t give me any shit. I’m honest–been honest–about my feelings. They’re not mutual. How’s a man always get shit for being plain honest about that?
And even though I won’t ask for it, technically, I won’t say no, either. That way, like I said, she can’t give me a hard time about it afterwards. I know what I should do. I should just steer her toward her driver-side door. Hug her there. Be the bigger person. She’s a big girl, though. Forgot my birthday wish.
And I’ve been at sea a really long time.
-tmc
Things Men Carry 