To me hairdressers are like lovers. I get all excited about trying them out; especially the ones with a bit of a name for being quirky. This morning I dished out top dollar for a guy with a great reputation, but paying hairdressers can be on par to using a prostitute: the cost doesn’t guarantee the quality, does it? Today’s session was totally sexy – a lot of foreplay involving the male in question telling me how great he was, how great it would be and how much success he’s had with other women. The act itself was over before I’d noticed, he patted my shoulder and called me love, and like a lot of sex, I left telling myself I could probably get a better job somewhere else.
As with lovers, the good thing is that you can move on to the next one soon after the anti-climax, and in between times you can mope around and blame yourself.
So most of lunchtime I’ve been coming up with reasons as to why it is my fault that I’ve just paid almost half my weekly income on having some guy do a ballet dance around my head whilst giving me a short back and sides which makes me look like a proper dyke. Well that’s reason number one: perhaps top hairdressers like to give you a haircut to suit your personality. Then there’s the fact that there’s not much you can do with a short haired person looking for a haircut, and there’s also my face. He needed to hide as much of it as possible. Another possibility is that it might be some new sort of fashion that came into style in the past twenty five years, and I wouldn’t have a clue about what’s kosher these days, now would I?
I’m probably being as selfish about this haircut as I am about sex: I expect to emerge from the experience looking at least ten years younger and 30lbs lighter. Somehow, I believe there should be a transformation somehow.
But no, here I sit with a short haircut that makes me look like a little boy, and that’s not as in skinny and thin little boy, it’s little as in pesky and irritating little boy.
So I’ve decided to make up for the bad hair with liposuction and a facelift. But what if the liposuctionist is like the hairdresser and I end up with a botch job, let’s say some lopsided fat removal or something? And people die getting facelifts done.
Maybe I’ll give the facelift and lipo a miss and just buy those elastic knickers that go up to your neck. And shoes, there’s always shoes, because shoes are like lovers…