Don't Mess With Cubans

Picture from Albert Quiroga's Havana 50 - 60

I usually don’t talk about myself on my blog because frankly, who cares?

But I don’t feel like rehashing the many evil doings of Castro, Inc. today.

I hate going to get a haircut because I hate waiting.

I hate to wait because thanks to Castro’s revolutionary ideas, it seems I spent the better part of my childhood standing in lines waiting for my turn to buy some rationed necessity of poor quality.

Anyway ... I go to a barbershop with like 25 barbers so if you’re not too particular about who cuts your hair, you’re in and out in 20 minutes. No wait. (Carl's on SR84 in Davie)

My hair has been highlighted in gray and white by Mother Nature to give me a more mature and distinguished look.

Today I made my thrice yearly pilgrimage to the barber shop.

And since the barbers expect a tip, it tends to create an atmosphere of “tolerance” to my natural obnoxiousness which I take advantage of to mess with them.

In the past, my stunts have included telling a barber I had only wanted a trim after he gave me flat-top and indignantly asking “what receding hairline?” when a barber told me he left my hair longer in the front to “hide” my receeding hairline.

Today, I told Hector, the lucky victim, that I wanted him to cut the gray out and leave only the black.

Hector pondered the request for a nano second and said “no problem, I’ll give you the same haircut I have”

Hector is bald.

And Cuban.



Can't mess with Cubans.

You can try, but it doesn't work.