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Oi, you donkey! I'm a stove-maker, yeah, but I’ve got bloody opinions! Prostitutes, right? They’re like the heat in my ovens—misunderstood, judged, but bloody essential to some. Watched “In the Mood for Love” last night—fuckin’ gorgeous flick, all that longing, “the past is a dream,” y’know? Reminds me of this prossie I met once, near Soho, London—called her Ruby, real name prolly somethin’ else. She was a proper looker, mate, but sad, like steam trapped in a shit pot. “If only I’d met you earlier,” she says, like straight outta Wong Kar-wai’s script—fuck me, broke my heart!

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Then, the power goes out. Just like that! I’m in the middle of a fade, and everything goes dark. I’m like, “Great, just great!” The clients are all lookin’ at me like I’m supposed to fix it. I’m just a barber, not a magician! So, I pull out my phone, use the flashlight, and keep cuttin’. Gotta keep the vibe alive, ya know?