There’s a twenty minute wait for my least unfavourite hairdresser.
I’ve always had an aversion to getting my haircut: something about having to sit still and stare at myself for twenty or so minutes is often too much to bear. I remember once triggering a panic attack in a barbers in Estonia, as it occurred to me (rather self-defeatingly) that one can’t get up and walk around whilst someone is waving a razor or a sharp pair of scissors in your immediate vicinity.
Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m getting my haircut in a foreign language. It could go any of a number of ways. The worst case scenario is that I end up with a hint of Neymar about my bonce. But, usually, I leave the hairdressers looking like the heir to a hairstyle throne shared by Morrissey and George Orwell. This is largely due to the fact that my Spanish is limited to “short around here” and “long on top”.
I did try to branch out once and use the word “floppy”. My hairdresser convulsed with laughter and almost chopped my ear off. Damn those false collocations! Still, at least I’ll be more than ready to talk to my doctor about “mid-life issues” when the time most assuredly comes.
The time is almost upon me (for my haircut, not penile dysfunction) and I am frantically googling “trendy” and “receding”. For some reason, it offers me this:
There’s nothing receding about that! In fact, I would call that ‘volumized in extremis’. Anyway, time is pressing and my hairdresser beckons me over. I garble something in Spanish about George Orwell and, panicking, show her the above picture.
Then I grit my teeth and stare into my own face for the next twenty minutes as hairs fly.
It doesn’t turn out quite as badly as I anticipated. In fact, I think I look quite the gad about town.
What do you think?