So there I am, wearing my typical Monday tuxedo though oddly missing my 2nd Monday of the month cummerbund (and welcome to the twilight zone! I dreamt this on a Thursday night!). I'm strolling down the street, tipping my cap and twirling my cane when the peppermint siren call of a barber's pole arrests my eyes. I doff my cap one last time and enter the establishment already anticipating the smell of barbicide and sight of disgarded hair that make me feel so perfectly at home. I'm the only one in the shop, and the barber welcomes me a little too hungrily. I'm apprehensive, because I never trust anyone with both a British accent and no mustache but my legs drive me to the chair in that uncontrollable dream-fashion. A few snips here and there and I have a fine haircut, if a little too British. "And your mustache sir?" he quieries in that terrifying accent.
I want to scream, to push my self from the chair and flee the establishment, a wadded up twenty dollar bill (though I'm sure the sick ponce will prefer pounds) flung madly in the direction of the cash register, never stopping for the change or even to inform him that he's undeserving of the tip my fear and urge to flee have rendered unto him. Instead I say, voice shaking, "No need good sir, I'll give it the ol' comb and snip myself later in the eve."
He cackles. "Oh no, I don't think you will."
I insist, voice slightly firmed up, "I assure you I must certainly will." I expect him to cackle some more, instead he turns to his work station and eats a hunk of some monstrosity that I am informed is "Kidney Pie" after I shreik "What devils have forced you to eat this monstrous concoction?" Still unsure of what devils have forced him to eat this evil meal I manage to find my legs and begin to rise from the chair. Still chewing his foul curse he places one surprisingly strong hand on my chest and pushes me back into the chair and holds me there. I hear the evil scream of his barber's clippers, and knowing what's about to happen I say a silent prayer for death. Instead of dying I'm forced to witness him, with one distrubingly practiced swoop, slice off my mustache. My dream ends with a scream and I wake up still screaming and didn't stop until I had to answer the phone several minutes later. Phone call concluded and neighbor assured that I didn't need the police or a "looneymobile" I retired to my grooming room and stared at the mirror with the highest magnification powers until I felt assured my mustache's presence and fortitude was undeniable.
Yes, I know, old hat, but thanks for letting me share anyway.