Timmy the Barber

Corey's barber is a dude named Timmy who operates down the block on Morningside Ave. He keeps limited hours and is the only barber in his little shop. Corey likes him because he is cool and only charges $9, and Corey gives him $5 as a tip. Even though he knows Timmy will be getting $12 from him, when he goes to the barber Corey takes a twenty, has Timmy make change and asks for two fives and a one. He then hands one of the fives back to Timmy.

Men, apparently, get into routines with their barbers that cannot be altered. Because of Corey's work and school schedule, he can only make it in to see Timmy about once every six months, so his hair is about a foot long and his beard looks like an upside-down Irish man with dreadlocks. He won't go see another barber, either.

Corey could trim his own beard at home, but he has lost the chargers to his various sets of clippers. We have a cabinet filled with clippers and clipper parts, that we are not allowed to throw in the garbage but will nonetheless not trim the wad of hair growing out of his face.

This only bothers me for one reason. It's not that he scratches his chin with the back of his hand like an Italian person signing a swear word. It's not really problematic that he looks shaggy, because who doesn't like to hug a cave man? No, my problem is with the mustache.

It curls over his lip like baleen, touching his teeth, moist with saliva. "Give me a kiss!" he says when I walk in the door, and I feel like a little piece of plankton swimming for my life away from that horrible set of whale teeth.