About a haircut

Well, that was probably the second most notable haircut of my life, the most notable one being when I was attended to by a horny hairdresser who didn’t break bodily contact with me for the entire duration of half an hour, and drew my attention to this fact. That was great.

But no, just now.

I took an instant dislike to this guy. I don’t know whether it was his snug lime green t-shirt, his surly demeanour, or the fact that instead of inviting me into the chair from the waiting area he just looked at me with disdain in his eyes and waited for me to do the necessary deduction required to come to the conclusion that he was going to be cutting my hair.

So I sat down, and it was then his turn to take a dislike to me. I told him roughly how I wanted to look, but to feel free to express his artistic tendenciesI didn’t use those words. He looked at me like I had just slapped his mother, and demanded numbers. Uh, I suppose a 6 on top and a 2 on the back and sides?

He was partially satiated. “Oh gosh,” I thought, “this may have been a bad move.”

Then he assaulted me with the clippers. I wasn’t sure whether I needed to clarify that the hairs that I wanted cutting were not actually on the inside of my head, and he didn’t have to bash my skull through to get to them.

“He’s one of them,” I thought, “he’s going to attack me for five minutes and then take my money. He’s not a hairdresser.”

I looked around to check the faces of the other hairdressers in the shop, just to confirm that they had acknowledged his presence and had recognised him as actually working there. I seriously thought that he may have just walked in off the street.

His contempt for me grew with every light-hearted sentence that I attempted to offer. I soon learnt.

I also have a tiny mole on the back of my neck – I swear that he was running the clippers over it repeatedly just to try and dig it out.

And then it all went strange. As time went on, he became more and more meticulous, pulling out all sorts of strange contraptions. He pored over the back of my neck for quite a while, targeting specific stray hairs, and refining the shape of my sideburns. Could I have been wrong? It was looking increasingly like he was one of those hairdressers who is so damn good that they give the impression of being haphazard when in fact their skills are, as the prophet says, mad.

He finished up, battered my face in with those big fluffy brushes, and then ran a little electric shaver thing over my ears, which I nearly gave him a smack for. I think he may have been taking the piss with that one.

I paid my money and left. I daren’t look in the mirror. I don’t want to know.

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