I have graduated from cow to cash cow. The beginning of this month marked my first paycheck! This is a bit of a landmark for me since it's the first time in about 22 years someone has paid me to do something they asked me to do. Yay!

Since little brother was extra nice on my birthday this year, I decided to get him something nice for him on his birthday, which incidentally is in a couple of days. First thought: a new guitar. Many years ago, I decided to take up the guitar, as most people do at that age. I went out and bought the cheapest one they had, asking specifically for one that would be best suited to a complete beginner. Fast forward a couple of years and the poor thing lay discarded in a corner. This was about the time little brother got the urge to learn to play what, according to me, is a chick magnet more than an instrument. Unfortunately, he didn't really like the solid brown wooden look the guitar had. It just didn't really say "future rock star with multiple groupies" to him. Also unfortunately, he had the cash in hand to implement his latest whim. A few hours later, I walk in to find my poor guitar mutilated. According to witnesses, it was first spray painted black, then, for effect, had a newspaper rubbed on the wet paint for a more grunge look. The end result was more seared flesh from spontaneous combustion than grunge, but that didn't stop little brother from dedicatedly practicing on it. Now I have seen many an ordinary pimply youth transformed into the sole objects of female attention within a 100 meter radius with a simple strum of the guitar, so what better gift for a kid with a libido at its peak than one such chick-magnet, I ask you?

Now I'm the first to admit I know absolutely nothing about guitars. Hence, I invite my friend T, second in command of many an odd mission of mine, and pretty handy guy with a guitar to come along with me on my secret mission to get my brother a guitar that was not only functional, but also "damned pretty". As my financial agent and chauffeur, I also asked along A, another childhood co-conspirator. The three of us went off to "Karachi Electronics", a shop on the second floor of main Khadda Market and, T assured us, a good variety of instruments to choose from. Once upstairs, I leave T to look around and find some options for me to approve while I fiddle with a drum set. I play an imaginary set on the drums for display before realizing that the drum set is right next to the huge display window from which everyone crossing main Khadda Market can see me making an ass of myself. I retreat to see what T has come up with. T hands me a guitar that's not so pretty (green and black, ick!) but, he assures me, a good buy. Upon asking for the price, I am forced to agree that it is, in fact, goodbye. I then take T aside and tell him to stay within his frigging price limit, not go over by a couple of thousand. He goes off to inspect the guitar line-up once again while A and I browse through the ones hanging on the wall off the side. One of them catches my eye and I ask the salesman how much it is. He ventures a price that is affordable, but heck, I want to save some of my first paycheck too. After some haggling, he reduced the price a bit and throws in an extra set of strings and a couple of picks. T insists of choosing the picks and ends up selecting one with a multitude of colors that, if nothing else, convince me that he will never, ever get himself any female groupies. For the millionth time, I make a mental note to kick his ass once we're not standing in a place that is so absurdly public. A steps in, mutters to me to give him the money and take the guitar to the car with T while he "haggles" a bit more. The raising of eyebrows on the word "haggle" gives me confidence, for some off reason and I take T back to the car with guitar in tow.

Five minutes later, A is seen exiting the shop and heading towards the car with a swagger that would impress John Wayne and a cigarette dangling from his lips. He gets into the car and casually exhales some smoke. "So? Did you get him to reduce the price some more?". I can't contain myself. The swagger has convinced me that this guy has pulled off a miracle and has returned with a big wad of money left over. "No, he said it was a reasonable price", he replied, and launches into the long story the salesman told him about his wife and kids and how they must be fed and how the shop would make no profit and so on and so forth. I mentally resolve to follow up on the urge to bind him to a chair and shave his head. I silently reflect on the lesson learned: men absolutely suck at shopping, even for guitars.