My hairdressers

“Goodness, don’t you have thick hair!”

“It really is thick isn’t it?”

“Your. Hair. Is. Really. Thick.”

This is about as far as my conversations with hairdressers and barbers have ever got -well, except my grandmother who cut my hair for the first eight years of my life. I’ll usually sit in the chair for half an hour or so, watching everyone else around me having friendly chats with their stylist, but never seemed to get much further than a discussion about my unruly mop of wire-like hair.

That is until last week, when I met Joe. Ahhhhhh, Joe! The time flew by as we discussed every subject under the sun; from Belgian cuisine to Korean football. I’d finally found my salon soulmate. The semi-pornographic men’s magazine (complete with its hair-proof plastic cover) that was placed in front of me remained unread and my cup of tea went cold as we talked like two old friends.

Then, shortly after I’d decided on whether to leave my hair over my ears or have it cut around, the conversation began to falter. He was clearly conscious of taking far too long, having been given several not so subtle taps on the arm by a passing colleague. Meanwhile I began to realise that whilst I would be leaving the salon alone, Joe would soon be joined by a someone else, sitting in my chair which would not even have gone cold.

I began to feel confused and emotional. Had I rushed into this like a sentimental old fool? Had Joe sensed my volnerability and simply taken pity on me? Had he even been to Belgium?

All will be revealed when I return in six to eight weeks. If Joe expresses even a hint of surprise at my hair’s resemblence to a hedgerow, I’ll know never to trust a hairdresser ever again.

For more hairy fun…

Mmmbop!

Groan….

For the record, to save any embarassment on my hairdresser’s part, I’ve changed his name to protect the innocent. Frankly, I should have changed my name too, but the grammatical challenge of pretending all of the above happened to a friend proved too difficult.