The Molestation Theory

I'm not a narcissist.

Most especially when it comes to my looks. Though my unprepossessing troll-like features rarely causes mirrors to break into pieces these days, I do know that I'm hardly the best looking fellow in the room, not unless the place is utterly deserted. Which sufficiently explains why unexpected compliments on my looks seem to trigger a deep-seated suspicion of the hapless benefactor and their hidden intent.

I've seen some really handsome Adonises, even dated a couple, and I can easily confirm I'm nowhere near the same plane of existence. Oh those supremely godly beings worthy of daily Instagram worship! Well at least when it comes to superficial beauty.

So when I do get the rare admirer, I find myself utterly non-plussed. You see, I decided to frequent a hairdresser a bit closer to where I work as a matter of convenience. Nothing like just running down for a quick haircut without muss or fuss.

Was he gay? I never really thought about it. After all whatever I sussed out with my broken gay-dar would probably be biased by the fact that he is a mildly fey hairdresser. Stereotypical, right?

First time it happened, I chalked it down to a figment of my overactive imagination. Second time, I wondered whether it was his own novel barber chairside manner. By the third, I didn't think it was shared delusion anymore. In fact, it bore close resemblance to the premise of bad gay porn.

Really it had me getting just a little bit concerned! Is it really all that usual to spend all that time washing my hair at the sink? No doubt the time he spends playing with my cropped hair has to be almost twice the time he spent cutting it.

Umm. Did you just flick my nipple? 

And that still wouldn't explain the curious need to unbutton my shirt halfway down my chest. Really, I might as well just remove it. When you wipe my chest with a piece of cloth, that's cleaning. When you wipe my chest without even the veiled pretence of a washcloth, that's bordering on inappropriate groping.

Then today I could have sworn I felt an oddly predatory nipple flick. Hmm. Turns out the molestation theory wasn't just a theory anymore. Followed by the oddest proposition I've ever gotten.

Hairdresser : Are you rushing for time? 
Paul : Not really. 
Hairdresser : You know I also give some really good massages.
Paul : You do?
Hairdresser : You should try them out.
Paul : What? Like right now?
Hairdresser : Sure, why not? Just take off your shirt. 

There was a raised eyebrow at that. Since he was gesturing to what seemed like the appropriately dark-lit backroom, I felt just a bit... apprehensive over the invitation. Sounded almost like an indecent proposal, albeit a really bumbling attempt at one!

Fortunately the hairdresser didn't seem to have his shearing scissors close by so I judged it a good time to make a speedy getaway. Mumbled a farewell, dumped the cash and flew out of there faster than he could even repeat his come-on.

At least I think it was. Was it?