The hairdresser who made enough money to buy a Mercedes SLK: a novella by H. P. Baxxter
Well, hardly a novella. It’s the first paragraph of the first chapter.
CHAPTER 1
What the hairdresser didn’t know about the art of pleasuring her clients, you could write on the back of a packet of crisps. Of which she bought many.
Her latest client was busy munching his way through one right now, as she shampooed his thick, oily, Mediterranean hair. She liked to keep her clients happy. They were like children; a little encouragement, a little discipline, a lot of attention, toys even. They loved it and she knew it.
“So what will it be, my dear” she purred, “long and flat or short on top?”
Her client almost choked on a cheese and onion crisp.
“You’re making a mess of my shop. Don’t spit, just swallow.”
She could feel the client shivering with excitement as she rinsed off the conditioner…
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Hal Ghaxaq sounds like a hot place to be.
Heqq, ir-rahal ismu mieghu, mhux hekk.
Brilliant.
Give us more, HP Baxxter.
Actually, I was inspired by my real hairdresser, or rather my barber. An honest yeoman by the name of Salvu. And something of an institution. He seems to get more buddies dropping in with a glass of milky tea and a soggy bag of greasy pastizzi than clients asking for a haircut.
Anyway, I was getting my usual short back and sides the other day, when Salvu’s best mate Pawlu dropped in. He’d just come back from a Mediterranean cruise with his wife.
As Salvu held my head with his vice-like grip, shearing off my locks and giving me a noseful of bad breath, Pawlu was telling him about the delights on board the luxury cruise liner.
“U tiekel kemm trid, Salv!”
“Bl-inbid u l-whisky b’killex?”
“L-ikel b’xej’, Salv. Imbaghad tixri biljett, erbghin Ewro, u tixtri xorb kemm trid.”
Salvu was onto the cut-throat razor now, touching up my nape (he anoints it with Vaseline out of a tub; the razor he just picks off the counter).
“Allura Pawlu, naghtu kaz tkun trid tara show tan-nisa… jinzghew…ikun hemm ukell?” said the veteran barber, miming the action of sliding off a bra strap with razor in hand.
“Minn killex ikun hemm, Salv. Minn killex.”
Goes to show, I thought. It’s always one thing. It’s always that. Everyone’s after quim.
Bless you Baxxter, a few laughs a day keep the Labour blues away.