This is how one thing leads to another.
I’m sitting in the barber chair in Hecho Hombre and Puma is warming up to bring my scrappy mange under control, my first haircut in months and it has become an embarrassing comb-over of the worst sort. The kind your uncle, the insurance guy, used to wear until he got that really bad toupe.
At the front desk, manager Nacho, the mustachioed son of Tijuana, is cueing up a song, a really good haunting, brooding, menacing song and I know it but I just can’t nail it down.
“Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds,” says Nacho.
“Ah, thanks,” says I. “Why do I know this one?”