This was back in 2021, just a weird quiet Wednesday in the middle of summer. I was about 19 at the time, home from college, and my sister asked me to do her a favor and watch her 3-month-old daughter while she got her hair done. I didn’t really have any plans that day, so I said sure.
We went to this salon in one of those weird half-abandoned suburban strip malls. I was sitting in the waiting area with the baby while my sister got called back, just kind of bouncing her in my arms and scrolling on my phone.
Then this guy walks in. Hoodie, jeans, low-key but confident. He sits down a couple chairs away, picks up a magazine like he’s just killing time. I glance over and do a double take. It’s Dave Mustaine. I recognized him immediately — the voice, the hair, the “I invented thrash metal and I condition regularly” energy. I figured he was at the salon to have his luscious hair done.
I’m trying not to stare, but I’m definitely staring. I wanted to say something — maybe thank him for melting my face with Holy Wars — but didn’t want to be weird about it. Before I can work up the nerve, my niece starts crying. Loud. Like tiny demon loud.
I’m bouncing her, shushing her, checking the diaper, looking for the bottle — nothing’s working. I’m freaking out a bit, mostly because I feel like I’m interrupting the calm aura of Dave Mustaine, Metal Shaman and Salon God.
Then he looks up. Smiles. Puts down the magazine. Walks over.
“Mind if I try something?” he asks.
I’m stunned, but I nod. He kneels down, gently takes the baby, and cradles her like he’s done it a hundred times. She’s still wailing. He looks at her, then at me.
“She’s probably just hungry,” he says.
And then, without missing a beat, he lifts his hoodie, exposes his chest, and starts breastfeeding her.
I just sat there in paralyzed silence. No bottle. No device. No explanation. Just Dave Mustaine, casually nursing an infant with nothing but raw determination and what I can only assume was the result of decades of thrash-induced endocrine mastery.
The baby immediately stops crying. She looks... enlightened. Calm. As if she’d seen the tablature of the universe and accepted it.
After a few minutes, he gently hands her back, zips up his hoodie, and says, “She’s got good taste. Thrash builds character.” Then he walks out, nods at the front desk, and disappears into the parking lot like nothing happened.
I never saw him again.
Anyway, anyone else met Dave Mustaine? Really down-to-earth guy.
|
