Let’s not beat around the bush here… July 23, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
So I needed to visit the sex-workers. The funny thing is, sex-workers are just as hopeless on the service-providing front as every other customer-service-oriented purveyor in Berlin. And not only was there a blogger in town, but there was also a gay thing in Berlin yesterday so there was double the call to be pretty. I trotted out into the scaldingly hot day in the early afternoon. Not earlier, because the Russian and I had popped out for a loaf of bread (or something) on Friday evening and got home at 5 in the morning. (The diversions you meet across your path on the way to the baker’s!) I sauntered up to my regular, old-lady hairdresser-cum-sex-worker. But she’d shut up shop. I was instantly gripped by panic. I shuddered with horror at the thought that perhaps all the sex-workers-cum-hairdressers might shut up shop early on a Saturday. And they do. The horror. Thoughts flashed through my head that I might have to ring GSE and pretend, because of my barnet, that something had come up and I just couldn’t make it. I sweated my way towards more civilised bits of Berlin. Salvation came in the form of a plasticky shopping centre where the sex-workers are obliged to work till 8 like all the other shops. I deleted the drafted SMS about my cactus having droopy-spike syndrome to GSE and strode into the hussies’ parlour.
“A dry cut, please.”
The madam looked gutted that I wanted such a minor transaction, but resignedly showed me to my chair. A bubbly child then got to work on my riah. She insisted on chat, and I had major recourse to my stock conversation with a dyed-in-the-wool Berliner of enthusiastic and hopeful jas. I ja’d for my life, and seemed to get pretty much away with it. The junior sex-worker asked me what I wanted. “Just a bit of slap and tickle or the full bollocks?” “Slap and tickle, please.” Although I didn’t express it as succinctly as that and passively agreed to her improved version of my request.
And she was all fiddly and prissy. Whereas I was hoping she’d hurtle into my locks in a blind frenzy, using that lawn-mower thing with gay abandon, she was all for filtering half a gram of hair through the comb and then pecking at it gently as a French woman eats her food. “I’ll miss both of today’s events at this rate,” I thought, sneeringly, the hatred welling up inside me. “Yes, it is hot, isn’t it?” I fluffed serenely when called upon to do so.
I think this hairdresser-cum-sex-worker was new to the trade. Perhaps I was her first client and she thought, therefore, that I needed to be treated with kid gloves. In her eagerness to please, she was occasionally all fingers and thumbs. And comb. As her comb drew blood from my ear for the eighteenth time, I couldn’t help slightly thinking that this was a touch reminiscent of a poorly-performed sex act. Which is what got me thinking about the sex-work comparison in the first place. And just as that nasty germination of a thought took more concrete form in my pervert’s brain, the madam went and had public sex with a client.
A strapping, handsome, blond gent with no need of a haircut wandered in and asked for a haircut. “Slap and tickle or the bollocks?” “The bollocks.” And she gave her minion, wedging her comb into my earless head at the time, a masterclass in how to satisfy your customers.
As I sat staring at myself in the mirror, the strapping, blond gent took a ludicrously sexual pose in the hair-washing chair. He laid himself back, practically split his shorts – so wide were his legs spread – and placed himself in the madam’s capable hands. She languidly took a big squirt of shampoo and began rubbing it into his head, all the time catching my eye with a look that translated something like, “See what your tightness made you miss?” I was a touch embarrassed to be such a close-range witness to this flagrant show of cranial sex. I thought that this must be what it’s like when groups of businessmen go off on a trip together. All inappropriate intimacy and doing things in front of your friends which you really shouldn’t do. My own lady looked utterly defeated as she tended to my locks in her comparatively unprofessional way. I felt defeated at being so utterly outstudded by the blond hunk.
These visits to the hair-brothel are just about as much as a man can take. If I wasn’t so attached to my riah, I’d welcome baldness with a quiver of glee. Alas. Alas…