As a non-Neanderthal I have my hair cut every four to six weeks. It has to be done for fear of looking into the mirror and gaze into a reflection of a middle-aged rocker wannabe.
I wear my hair fairly short, but not anything close to a shaved head like some navy seal wannabe. Imagine my surprise when I walked out of the salon yesterday with much less than I paid for. My hairdresser, of the last twenty years, went all Edward Scissorhands on my ass. I walked out looking like GI Joe, without the facial features, athletic built and costume.
It left me wondering which gear slipped in her mind that would make her think more is better. Or is less better? See, this is confusing. I have a few theories as to why she considered it appropriate behaviour to remove almost all of the natural protection of my scalp.
- She likes my company and therefore takes as much time as she can with my head of grey hair or,
- She doesn’t like my company and therefore wants to delay my next visit with at least four weeks.
- She earns enough money and doesn’t require my measly monthly fee, thus forcing me into a cycle of nine weeks or,
- She doesn’t earn enough money and thinks I will be paying her more for doing such a hell of a job.
- She loves my grey hair and therefore wants to cut off as much as she can to make her own wig or,
- She hates my grey hair and wants to relinquish every piece of evidence that exist on my head.
Whatever the reason for her odd behaviour, in the end there were just way to much hair lying on the floor for any almost-forty-year-old man to feel comfortable about. Friends of mine who have turned bald in recent years would have burst out in hysterical weeping. I have now realised that I have an even lesser understanding of the workings of the female mind than I initially thought.
The advantage of having stubble for hair is that towel drying after a shower now doubles as combing it. I will also be saving huge volumes of product in the next few weeks, unless I want my hair to be flat on my head. But who doesn’t want to look like Bart Simpson, hey?
On my way to work I was concerned about being pulled off and questioned after news of a jail break last night, either that or there is a distinct probability that someone might recruit me for some special forces task team aka the Fighting Forties.
I didn’t let the opportunity pass me by and asked her why she decided to increase her effectiveness exponentially. Her reply:
“I got a new pair of scissors, and they’re really sharp.”
OK. Nuff said.
“Let’s all just remain calm. Let’s put down those scissors. Please move away from the scissors. Yes that’s it. Step back from the scissors. These nice young men in the white coats will take care of you now. That’s it. Easy does it. Let’s not do anything radical. No quick movements. We don’t want anyone to suddenly go scissor happy.”
Too late, and the victims are lying on a heap on the floor chanting “Why, why, why!”
But it will grow back…won’t it?