Anal Haircuts

I had this very bizaree telephone conversation today.

Me: “Hello”
Them : “Ahh, I was looking for Sarah”
Me: She is away from her desk at the moment, can I take a message?”
Them : “Ahh yes, can you get her to call me back please”
Me : No worries, who’s speaking please?”
Them : “Anal”
(MeThinking : Is he calling me Anal?)
Me : “Anal?”
Them : “Yes Anal”.
(MeThinking: Maybe he is just called Anal, after all there is someone called Randy P Enis in this company)
Me : Okay Anal, I’ll get her to give you a call when she gets back


Sarah gets back to her desk………..

Me: “Ahh, Sarah, Do you know Anal?”
(A look that I have asked something way too personal………….)
Sarah: “No, did Anil call?”
Me: “Ahh, it was Anil, he pronounced it as Anal”
Sarah : “Yes, that will be his accent”

Whoops. I’ll get my coat.


………….And then onto the hairdressers

I sometimes make the assumption that women see going to the hairdressers as joy, men see it as a chore. Maybe it’s just me, but every month the routine is turning into a dentist type experience, let me explain.

As I walked into today, I observed the normal things, the fully seated queue, one man standing, two kids playing. The radio on in the background, the crumpled, two month old copies of Gardeners world magazine with a free local paper, two pages missing, someone taking the centre page job section.

Then you wait. You play a memory game. Remember the faces around you without causing a stare. Everyone else is doing the “Did he come in before me or after me” game, whilst pinning their hopes on the other person to remember. It’s all to prevent the most awkward of English situations that God forbid would arise, the “Who’s next in line” question. In the absence of any official queue system, it’s based on a system of trust.

After thirty minutes of queue analysing, phone looking, shoe checking and wondering who will cut your hair Russian roulette style, it’s finally your turn. Having successfully remembered the people in line before, with the pre-prompting of the “Who’s next” question, you are finally allowed to stroll up to the adjustable, hair drenched chair.

“So what can I do for you today”, the question by the hairdresser. Let me see, well how about some pensions advice, a bag of onions and a pint of beer. After realising that the sarcasm can wait (after all, this person is armed with scissors and a blade), it’s on to the fun and games of describing what haircut you actually want. As I learned to my cost in 1992 (but still fresh in memory), never leave anything to assumption when it comes to hairdressers. They will seize on the artist freedom that they have been given, modelling your new crop on a mixture of mentalist patient and released for the weekend army recruit.

After a few nods, a few hand signals and a few “you know what I means”, it’s time for the action to start.

Then follows the crucial moment. The conversation starter. Like getting into a taxi, this process can be initiated with the following conversation starters : -

“Have you been busy today?”
or

“The weather is looking better for the weekend”

Which comes onto the notorious English weather question. Why do we talk about it so much when our weather is so average, I mean it hardly ever snows, it’s never really that hot and we don’t really get hurricanes, tornadoes or floods after all. Well, we talk about the weather because that’s the standard conversation starter on these shores to overcome our natural reserved nature. In goes like this:-

“The weather is looking better for the weekend”
“Yes, it’s been a bit chilly today”
“Are you doing anything nice at the weekend?”
“Ahh, that depends on the weather really”

I sit down. Large mirror ahead. Where exactly do you look whilst getting your haircut? Do you look at your hair being cut, or at the person cutting your hair? Or do you do neither and just look at the hairdresser utensils that are scattered in front of you?

It’s done. Your hair is on the floor. It has taken fifteen minutes but seemed like thirty. Then comes the next series of hairdresser moments. “Does that feel lighter?” they prompt at the end. Does that feel lighter? How much does hair weigh? Bearing in mind the scissors are still close, I refrain from that “Yes thank you, I feel like you have lifted a big weight from my head today” and wait for the next action. Pulling a plastic mirror from the side, they manoeuvre it around the side of your head, finishing with the classic line “Is that okay for you?”. Now, of course, I understand they are being polite. But quite why they have chosen to hide the back of your head right upto the last moment always causes me great suspicion. What have they been hiding all that time? I think I know why. In the hairdressers handbook it says “Always ask them if it’s okay, we don’t really mean it, we just assume they say yes”. I proved this when I once said “Actually, can you fade it in a bit more please”. Face of thunder.

As they put the mirror on the side, the final question in ‘hairdressers checklist’ is used. “Would you like something on that?”. Noticing that the scissors are now on the side and that the knife is firmly out of sight, I say “Yes, a hat”. Of course not. I accept the gesture of complimentary hair gel but soon live to regret it. He’s getting the hairdryer out! I’ve never used a hairdryer in my life, there’s always been a reason for that. That’s because it looks like someone has put my fingers in a socket. To add to the hairdryer humiliation, the ‘hairdresser’ then tries to become a stylist, using gel spray and his fingers to give me spikes I never had before, turning my crop of hair into a Miami Vice style eighties throwback. I watch in horror as they try to make a good situation out of a bad one, but only result in making it ten times worse.

Salvation. It’s all over. They give you a token parting gift of a white tissue, for what purpose I will never know. Blow my nose. Hide my face. Wave it in surrender? I will never know. As they type a random figure into the cash register I can see the exit is nearer. Just onto the last point. They give me my change, the pause, time to decide the amount I put into the ‘tip’ box in front of me. One pound in the pot. It’s been a pleasure.

Bring on next month.