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Haircut at Madam Twon's, Part I
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
HAIRCUT AT MADAM TWON'S
by Art Miyako
It all started innocently enough. I really didn't have any intention
of getting involved in what I've gotten myself into, but it is a long
story, and I hope you'll have patience and bear with me as I relate
it. The beginning is always the hardest part they say, but here's
my attempt;
I've always been a little bit particular about my appearance.
Having just moved to a new city and going through the painful job-
searching process, now moreso than ever. I'd been living in San
Francisco for almost three months now, and was long overdue
for a haircut; I looked pretty unkempt, and the kind of work I
wanted would never have it. It was time, gentle reader, for me to
have a haircut.
I scanned the phonebook that Thursday afternoon, but nothing
really caught my eye. I'm just really fussy, I guess, but better
safe than sorry, right? Anyhow, I figured that there was really no
way of finding the right place unless I scoped the possibilities for
myself. Now, my old barber had been a fellow named Sal, and
I'd always had luck going to Italian hairstylists. Don't ask me why;
it just seemed that they always did the best job. I thought that the
best place to start my search was therefor in the Italian part of the
city: North Beach.
I hopped the next bus and rode through downtown, finally getting
off at the corner of Kearny and Broadway. It struck me that there
weren't _any_ barbers here at all, just a few restaurants and sex
shops. This was obviously going to take some footwork.
Before I knew it, I'd wandered out of North Beach and into
Chinatown. I kept wandering around, but none of the few barber
shops I passed really looked right. Finally, I ended up in one of
those tiny dead-end streets that make up the back-alley maze of
Chinatown that very few tourists ever wander into.
Understandable; the place was nothing to look at, and I don't
even know if the street I was on _had_ a name. It was nothing
but the backs of some rundown tenements, and only a single
sign gave the place any distinction at all - "Madame Twon's
House of Hair", it read. Odd, I thought. It wasn't listed in the
phone book, and it was so hidden away back there... how'd they
get customers?
I was tired from walking around so much, and I decided I'd take
my chances with this place. As I walked in, I realized how they
got their customers! A number of young Asian women were
milling about the shop, and all of them were completely
_stacked_. I didn't think Asian women could be so well-endowed
by nature. After all, all that I'd ever met tended to be rather on the
modest side when it came to bust-size. No such circumstance
here; there wasn't a single one of these very attractive girls who
measured under a 50-DD, at least. All were dressed in leather
teddies with a zipper running horizontally across the chest, black
stockings and stilletto heels. I practically drooled on myself.
The only exception was the middle-aged, chunky woman at the
reception desk. She had been regarding me since I'd come into
the shop, and I now approached her and said, "I'd like a haircut,
please."
She didn't utter a word, but pointed to a sign on the desk. It read:
White Ticket: $20.00
Green Ticket: $40.00
Yellow Ticket: $60.00
Red Ticket: $80.00
Blue Ticket: $100.00
"$100 for a haircut?", I asked, "That seems like quite a lot. You
must have very good stylists." The woman didn't respond, but
merely smiled and extended a hand that held a blue slip of paper.
Speechlessly, I reached into my pocket and fished out my wallet.
I had $110.00. This had better be one _hell_ of a trim.
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