My barber shop is on Park Avenue South in the twenties. My haircut (a number two attachment to the clippers all around with natural back and blended sideburns) is easily achieved, but still, my standards are high. There is an older barber at my barbershop that I avoid like the plague as he lacks the detail orientation required. Little flyaways must be noticed and dealt with.
On my last visit, there was a new younger barber. As my regular guy was busy, I climbed into the new guys chair. His level of detail is excellent. What could be a five minute haircut is approaching twenty. Little details about him become apparent. The tufty soft black hair on his arms. The soft brown of his eyes. His smooth tan skin. Suddenly my imagination has him naked and noticing every time he presses against me.
In a slight (very, mind you) rapture, he's finished with the hair and gained my trust from his work. He had asked to trim the beard earlier, but I had refused as I like to do my own (or let this one certain friend do it when we're both naked). But again he asks and this time, caught up in my little fantasy-world, I allow it and am so deep in my own "special place" that little attention is paid.
He finishes, and I open my eyes. To find a beard that has been trimmed up to the jawline. Like that of a Puerto Rican bike messenger. Like that of guys that have weak jawlines and need their beards to create a stronger appearance. All my appointments that week flash into my head: that sort-of date with the super-hottie, Daniel Nardicio's movie premiere, my regular meetings with this one new guy. The damage is done though and nothing can be done to fix it save removing it all, something unimaginable.
My beard grows quickly and, in fact, The Line is no longer visible. But word to the wise: trust no one with a cutting implement aimed at your throat.