Billy Bob Thornton rolled up the sleeves of his tailored $3,500 denim snap button shirt and did not tuck them into his $800 pre-distressed 45 RPM jeans as he got into the back of his limousine, which was shaped like a beat up old Ford pick-up truck. His driver, a Polish immigrant named Aleksy, who Billy Bob insisted on calling “Bud,” even though the Americanized diminutive “Alex” would have made much more sense, turned around in the calf-leather seat and peered through the darkened partition glass. Billy Bob was picking at his teeth with a diamond toothpick. It was literally a shard of diamond, shaped like a toothpick.
“Mr. Thornton, sir,” Aleksy said, “where shall I command your chariot today?”
Billy Bob popped open a $1,200 bottle of Perrier-Jouët and poured some into an empty Miller High Life can wrapped in a Takashi Murakami/LV cozy.
“Shucks, Bud, I’m a get mah hairs cut today.”
As Aleksy guided the pick up truck shaped limousine through traffic, Billy Bob Thornton drummed out a beat on the top of his thighs. If he had a stalk of wheat he would chew it, but he didn’t. He rummaged through the portable humidor and found a Cuban cigar and chewed on that instead. Folks!
His barber, a former French fashion designer who charged $700 for a trim, as with everyone in his life, had been given strict instructions not to bring up Billy Bob’s acting career. Why would you? Music was his first love, everyone knew that. So, if the barber made small talk, he was only to make small talk about music. He was also provided with a list of other small talk subjects:
- Cowboy Stuff/Injun Stuff
- Women’s Tits
- Automobile Detailing
- Modern Constructs of Masculinity
- Pinup Girl Tattoo Designs
The thing about Billy Bob Thornton is that he’s just a good ol’ boy, and like all good ol’ boys, he has a list of things that you are and are not allowed to talk to him about. And he enforces that list. Because he’s just a normal guy.
The interior of the salon was polished white, and gleamed like a surgical theater. A woman with razor cut bangs and a clear plastic mini-dress over a neon green bikini offered Billy Bob a cappuccino. He poured it into an authentic tin camping cup and sipped it slowly. Out on the trail, you never knew when you would get a chance to make camp and have another cup of coffee. “This sure does a man right after a hard day’s work, little lady,” he said. Billy Bob Thornton had been awake for 45 minutes. And prior to that he’d been asleep on a California King-sized waterbed filled with Vos.
As the barber began his work, using handmade silver shears to trim Billy Bob’s graying hair for the third time that week–because Billy Bob liked his hair kept at the exact same length at all times, and would actually come in every day, but, you know, the economy–Billy Bob closed his eyes and thought about how much he just loved music. He loved it so fucking much. Everyone knew that. What, did he have to get a tattoo across his forehead that said “musician”? Maybe he would. But it probably wasn’t necessary. He just looked like a musician. He was married to music, just like he used to be married to Angelina Jolie, a normal, everyday woman whose first love was adoption.
“So, now you makes music for movies?” the barber asked.
Billy Bob Thornton’s eyes shot open. For a moment, he was at a loss. The question was about music, but it had the word movies in it. He felt a hot streak of panic flush up his back and creep along the top of his skull. Sweat popped up on his brow, and the heavy pancake foundation he wore, like all men do, dripped down into his collar. Finally, with a squeal of ridiculous rage, he ripped the smock from around his neck.
“WE HAD AN AGREEMENT, PAL.”
Billy Bob Thornton stood up and turned to face the barber, who remember was not a barber at all, but actually a super expensive Beverly Hills salon owner who charged a ludicrous amount of money to cut self-absorbed monsters’ hair.
“I’m out of here. This haircut is over! You blew it, Bud. You blew it big time!”
The barber set down his scissors.
“You still has to pay full price for this day.”
“OK.” Billy Bob Thornton said. “I love music!”
Billy Bob paid for the haircut ($1,800) and stormed out.
The barber, like the rest of the world faced with Billy Bob Thornton’s over-indulgent self-involved image management, shrugged.