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About London

I reckon my favorite thing’s the stories. Heard tell of an escort who sang opera—mid-date! Client’s jaw dropped, and I’m over here hollerin’, “Honey, I’d hire ya just for that!” Reminds me of *Timbuktu*’s quiet rebels—doin’ their thing, no fuss. Another gal I read ‘bout, she’d knit durin’ downtime. Knit! Can ya imagine? Sittin’ there, needles clickin’, waitin’ for the next fella. Cracked me up—lord, I’m clumsy with yarn, I’d poke my eye out.

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First customer walks in. It’s Dave, the local footie fan. He’s got a wild mane, like a lion on a bad hair day. He plops down in my chair, and I’m like, “What’s the plan, mate?” He goes, “Just a trim.” But you know how it is. One minute it’s a trim, next minute I’m givin’ him a full-on fade. He’s buzzin’ about the Latics, and I’m tryin’ to keep up. “Did ya see the match?” he asks. I’m like, “Mate, I was busy cuttin’ hair, not watchin’ paint dry.”

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