So there I was, sitting in one of my least favourite places in the world, staring at an amorphous blob in the mirror.
The place was my barber shop and the reason that I was staring at a pale blurred alien-type creature was that it was the time when I had to get my hair cut.
I hate having my hair cut – worse I hate my hair full stop (regular readers will know this).
One of the reasons my hair gets into the sorry state it was in on this particular occasion is that I delay and delay having it cut until I can’t bear my hair any longer and having it removed is better than it taking over my entire head.
Even when my hair is short, it is unmanageable. It is like a wild sentient mop of curly spaghetti that refuses all attempts to get it to behave itself.
When I get up in the morning, I dread looking in the mirror because I wonder what shape it has assumed overnight. A lot of the time, Mrs PM will just smile and say:
“Look at your hair.”
She will chuckle because that is usually my cue to start a humorous rant about how awful it is. She will watch as I try to tame it with a brush before going into the shower to get the big boys on the job (shampoo and water).
However, there have been occasions when I have been in such a hurry that I have showered, towel dried my hair, got dressed and left the house without having brought it under control.
I arrive at my destination (usually work) and wonder why people are sniggering at me.
“Is that a wig, Dave, or have you picked up an alien on the way to work?”
Worse, I then have to go to the bathroom and try to tame the mess on my head with a little water and my fingers and usually I end up making it ten times worse – and this is even when it is bloody short!
You would think that I would be used to it after 56 years of pain – but no! I’m not. Every day is a challenge – every day my hair finds new ways to hurt and surprise me by mutating into something inhuman and horrific.
I can sense your next question, dear reader.
“Why don’t you just shave it off?”
Believe me I have considered it. The problem is that some people actually like it. These strange people are members of the opposite sex who on occasion have actually said things like:
“Your hair is lovely and thick!””
“I wish I had hair like yours!”
Mrs PM will not allow me to have it short – she prefers it as it is (for some crazy reason).
So why do I hate having my hair cut when in reality it makes my unmanageable mop more controllable?
Several reasons:
(1) I hate waiting for anything. My local barber does a pretty good job and I feel loyal to them but if I time it badly, I end up having to wait behind quite a few people. The magazines available are all men’s magazines full of cars, weight-lifters, pictures of semi-naked women or all three so I have to read my phone.
(2) While waiting, I have to check every bugger who comes in. If the place is really busy I have to make sure that none of them queue jump when one of the hairdressers says “Who’s next?”. So I can’t really concentrate on my phone at all.
(3) When I finally sit down I am throttled by the gown they make me wear. I see pictures of handsome men with magnificent hair and super trendy hairstyles and I know if I asked for one of those I would look nothing like them – just a stupid old git with a mad haircut. So I ask for my usual style – which is a bit dull but it works.
(4) When I am asked what I want, I have to take my glasses off – hence staring at an amorphous blob in the mirror. I can’t see myself at all – in fact I am so paranoid that I am not 100% convinced that the person I am staring at is actually me or somebody in the building next door peering at me.
(5) I can’t see what they are doing with my hair. I have asked for my usual style and then he or she has set to work lopping off my locks. First my hair is so unmanageable that it has to be drenched with water which, despite their best efforts always ends up in my face or running down my neck. Even if the barber were to shave all of my hair off, I would have no clue. If I ended up with a weird Mohican I would be oblivious.
(6) I have to have an inane conversation about holidays, work, football or all three. That’s not so bad but when I talk to somebody I like to look at them and without my glasses the barber is just another amorphous blob wandering around me. I can’t even tell whether the barber actually has eyes.
(7) When he or she has finished, I will be asked what I think and no matter how bad it looks I will invariably say “Perfect!”. To be fair, they usually do a grand job but I am still haunted by the memory of the mad woman who cut off my mullet in the 1980’s – I still have nightmares about it.
At least when my hair has been cut I have a couple of weeks when I can jump out of bed and mock my hair telling it to do its worst.
That’s right, dear reader – I talk to my hair.
My next visit to the barber will be in a couple of weeks when I have to queue up with everybody else wanting a wonderful style for Christmas.
It’s either that, or spend the weeks leading up to Christmas and New Year doing battle with my mop armed only with wax and a lot of patience.
What a choice!
I really hate my hair!
