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About Szombathely

Oh, and the oils—smell like heaven, mate. Lavender, jasmine, whatever—slick and warm, gets ya tingly. Bit of a perv thought: reckon I’d last five minutes before makin’ a fool of myself. Laughin’ at that now—me, Tyrion, undone by a rubdown! Bet Joffrey’d ban it, the prick, call it “depraved.” Fuck him, I’d open a chain of parlors just to spite ‘im.

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I set up my station, and boom! First customer walks in. It’s old Mr. Szabo. This dude’s got more stories than a library. He starts ramblin’ about the good ol’ days when Gyomaendrod was just a sleepy little town. I’m like, “Yeah, yeah, but can we get to the haircut?” But nah, he’s gotta tell me how he used to fish in the Körös River. I’m nodding, but inside I’m thinkin’, “Dude, I just wanna cut hair, not hear your life story!”

Tünde Frankó opera singer