Lydia Oldham Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Bristol

Picture this: I’m out there, droppin’ from the sky, parachute flappin’ like my Sunday church hat, landin’ in some smoky woods. Halleluyer! I’m sweatin’, cussin’, tryna put out fires, when I see this gal—fishnets, heels, leanin’ on a pine tree like she waitin’ for a bus. I’m like, “Honey, you lost? This ain’t no red-light district!” She smirks, says, “I’m here for the smokejumpers—y’all sexy.” I hollered! Ain’t that a trip? A prostitute scoutin’ firefighters in the damn wilderness. Made me mad, tho—girl, we out here savin’ lives, not lookin’ for a quickie!

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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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