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JUNE 2017

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12th June 2017

After this last growth-inspiring lockdown, my hair was looking like a Chia Pet so I decided that it was time for a trim. There's this Guatemalan dude in my cell block named Ricardo that cuts hair using the blades out of a razor and a small black comb. Kind of primitive, but it works. He sets a chair up on the top tier, back in this cut by the showers, and all of his homies hang out while he cuts hair (like it's burrito night or something). The guy charges three mailing stamps, or $1.50. Considering the institution barbers in the barber shop expect a gratuity of $2.50, this isn't such a bad deal.

So I went into the safe (an empty peanut butter jar that I hide underneath the socks in my locker) and dug out three stamps (my last three) and headed up to Guatemalan Harlem to get a trim. I used the 10 Spanish words that I know (that aren't curse words) and told the guy what I wanted. Basically, I said, "I'd like a fade on the sides, leave the sideburn shaped and don't make it flush with the top of my ear (b/c it gives a person that Fred Munster look), and leave it just it little bit longer on the top." Then I remembered the back, so I added, "Oh, and square the back on the bottom." No problemo, right? Uh, not exactly.

I handed the him the three stamps and a new Bic razor, and let him get to work. He had an old sheet that he fanned out (like he was a matador) and then covered me up with it, securing it at my neck. His homies were a little too quiet and focusing a little too much on my hair, so I said, "Did you guys here that Trump signed an Executive Order to take all of the money in Guatemalan inmates accounts who are in the country illegally?" That got 'em hopping. They started yelling at each other and cursing in rapid-fire Spanish. I have no idea what Trump plans to do, but at least it got them up off staring at my hair. I couldn't take the pressure.

When the barber finished (who I now call Ricardo Retardo), he handed me the little plastic mirror that they sell on the commissary for $2.50. I couldn't believe my reflection. I looked like the brother of that North Korean dictator, Kim Jong Un. The one that those Ninja girls killed in the airport in Indonesia. The one who's been tested nuclear weapons that drop into the ocean near Japan.

I now had a haircut faded up the sides, but it was a mop on the top. I looked like a cross between Da Furher and Kim Jong Fuhgettaboutit. My first thought was, Oh well, it will grow back. My second though was, "No tip for you," and I had planned on tipping him a Ramen noodle soup if he did a good job.

When I got out of the chair, all of his boys started whistling and giving me the thumbs up. They'd obviously been paid off. They were the shills. I walked down the stairs and one of my boys came over to me and clicked his heels, then shot a Nazi salute out if from of him, and said, "Heil Hitler!!!"

I just shook my head and walked off.

Jeffrey P. Frye
Bank Robber's Blog