Manhandled

I only write when something – an idea or thought - presents itself to me naturally. That hasn’t happened for some time. But today, inspiration hit me in the most unexpected way: through a giant set of transsexual man hands. Let me explain. I get my hair cut at a place down the street and it’s usually a crapshoot in terms of who ends up styling my coif. Completely random. So I threw caution to the wind and let fate make my decision for me.  As luck would have it, I ended with an Asian transsexual with hands that made my head feel like a pool ball. These were mitts. Baseball mitts. And every snip brought more attention to her meaty gloves. The scissors literally disappeared into the never-ending sea of flesh. My head thrashed recklessly. With my eyes closed, I swore it could have been Wilt Chamberlain behind the chair. It’s all I could think about.  In fact, I’m still thinking about it. My haircut is a constant reminder of the ruthless manhandling I endured not 3 hours ago.  Then came the shampoo after the cut.  It was miraculous. With one “palming” she could scrub every inch of my head. Efficient? You bet she was. Convincing in her transition? Not so much.