My first cut was pleasant, as every one would be. To him I explained my work as opposed to what my job should be. And openly dreamt of what my endeavors could be…
Our conversation changed in our second visit, my outlook became comparatively exquisite. Online dating started to spark… yet every opportunity seemed but a shot in the dark. He furthered my fashion with considered precision: every cut, clip, and buzz were a careful decision. Our chitter chatter relaxed toward weary dating woes: like paying the first check. Who fucking knows?
Third, and fourth, the fifth: my first shave. Hot towels, oils, and cream on a blade. Afterward: cool water and witch hazel. Smooth: premium grade.
We talked of ambition, dreams and possibility. Shortly, my confidence would pursue my ability. Women were still troubling, as heard by still grumpy conversations… every scenario made for somehow bumpy relations. This strife and pain, which all men may face, was comfortably conversed in the sanctity of this place. The banter escalated, the joking increased, and lest my face get cut, laughter had to be forcibly ceased.
The work done here is a stylish therapy, I no longer do things self-despairingly. I gained a sense of prestige, felt like a new man, and wholesome. Eventually ready to impress at the #HartfordHandsome. Suddenly (after several months) impossibilities were easy: The time I got to model at Magzy’s drink and draw, 20 clocked minutes with Arielle’s eyes you saw, and Handsome’s blink heckle that flinched me: haha!
At long last, I quit my job to work harder than ever: pursuing dreams of a worthy endeavor!
My story continues on with one ‘win-woman’, and three ‘win-men.’ Because, listen closely gentlemen, I’m now. Totally comfortable. Around women.
Isn’t that right Danielle? #NoProblem