Short back and sighs

It was that terrible time again. Haircut time. I know it’s that time because a small child said to me, ‘I’ve never seen anyone with hair like yours before’. Although I don’t want to be the kind of person who is just like everybody else, I’m thinking blue-collar American here, I don’t want to stand out quite that much in a crowd.

The thing about my little town is that, at times, it can feel like it’s only populated by over-70’s. So I find myself in a salon surrounded by the kind of people who would play shuffle-board on a round-the-world cruise, or take one of those coach tours you see parked up at motorway service stations where everyone seems to act like South Mimms Services is actually a piece of Venice, misplaced just north of London. It’s not that I did anything wrong. I chose a trendy place with a onomatopoeic name, with young staff, primary-coloured walls, and loud music. It just happened to be full of older people. Older women.

So I’m having my hair washed, despite the fact I washed it in the shower 24 minutes ago, and I’m drawn into listening to the old lady next to me talking. I know all of her recent history, in over-heard shorthand. “Oh, I got a hire insurance car… some companies do that nowadays you know… lucky the car in front pulled away at the exact moment I got hit, otherwise I’d have been concertinered…”. Fantastic. Well, not for her obviously. I’m engrossed, and I miss the fact that my hair is now washed and clean, only 28 minutes after I stepped out of the shower.

I’m having my hair cut now, and unusually I’m saved from my salon social leprosy by my snipper starting a conversation. I know this because she talks rather loudly and accusatory because, apparently, I ignored her question about how my Christmas went the first time. I was engrossed. Old lady number 1 is now in the chair next to me, and still talking. “I had to come here first… I’m cooking for my club later… 12 of them… well, I’m not cooking… caterer… lady… Ham as the main course… except for the vegetarians… I think she’s doing some vegetables for them…”. Despite the constant worry in the back of my mind that I’m going to get a bad haircut as a result of my curtailing (and in many respects ignoring) my stylist’s attempts at engaging me in conversation, I’m gripped at this lady’s talking.
You see, old lady number 1 is having a busier social schedule than me. She’s having a busier schedule than me full stop. I’m going out for a quick ride before sitting in the car being chaufferred to Birmingham for a string quartet rehearsal. No dining, no dressing smart, no socialite ocassions with Forero Roche at all.

I try to cheer myself up that I’m actually a bit busy tomorrow. Unaware of my dismay, the lady in question continues to jiggle her feet, which don’t reach the floor from the height of her chair, in time to the latest reincarnation of a Paul Weller hit that some shiny young pop band is having played on Local FM…