The Haircut

I got a haircut last Saturday, after much avoidance and stress. I couldn’t care less what they do to my hair, I worry about the social etiquette. They inevitably ask me if I’m doing anything exciting for a holiday, or if I’m going out that night, and if so, where. And I inevitably lie, because I don’t know where I’m going on holiday, and I’m probably not going out that night.

My hair was much too long, and my life much too boring. Walking into the salon was like walking into the jaws of death. My ‘fuck off’ demeanour , long black coat and walking-through-treacle slowness did not fit in with the perky young hairdressers with their fashionable hairdos and the busy bustling environment.

I tried not to talk. Because that’s when the jig is up, and they realise just how weird I am. I tried to smile, while silently wishing that they would hurry up so I could escape.

So now I have a fabulous hairdo.