A/N: Not sure where this one came from. Other than I do hair.
Hereby disclaimed.
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Sam was two maybe three.
The barber was an old guy named Gus.
He wore a white button down smock and smelled like old spice and peppermint.
Sam hopped up into the chair easy enough, curiosity in his large blue eyes.
He fingered the silver caps on the ends of the chair arms.
Giggled a little when Gus threw a bright red cape around his shoulders.
The shears were a silver flash.
The comb a black streak.
That old guy was fast.
Wicked fast.
Dad was faster.
Two smoking barrels left a ventilated Gus cursing in ancient Sumerian on the floor.
His real face was the kind of thing that could scar a kid for life.
I'll never forget it.
The shop burned up like driftwood at a beach party.
We couldn't get Sammy within 20 feet of a barber pole after that.