Half Cut and Preshly Pucked

I've found and settled on a new hairdresser. Things with Holly just didn't work out. It wasn't her fault, it was me. I wasn't ready for that type of commitment, often the conversation didn't flow and looks only last up to a certain point. The blonde hair, the skimpy clothes, the breasts and the fake tan just weren't attractive. Even after I stopped wearing them she still didn't like me.

I moved on, Holly and I just drifted and there were no tears and no big upsets.

And I found a new place to rest my weary head. It's one of the mega super trendy ones in Kingston and frankly I enjoy the pampering and luxury, even thought it costs me about the same as it would cost to buy one of the smaller BMWs, probably without an upgraded sound system though.

On Saturday morning I was sitting in there at the designated time. My hair had been washed, my head had had the massage thing where they make you think that you'd happily pay the money just for that without a haircut at all, all was good and Sharon, my new best friend, was working her way through the "not very big hair" I have.

It's about the fourth or fifth time I've been "done" by Sharon. She's nice, she has a 1 year old daughter and we talk about kids, life, music and the world in general. I don't think she's going to beat Darwin in the race to gain a PhD but she's still nice. She explains stuff about my hair to me and remembers things I've told her before. There's nothing worse than having the same conversation that you had last time because the hairdresser never listened to a word you said.

Then, just at about the halfway point of my haircut, we heard a loud clanging sound, rather like a fire bell.

It was a fire bell.

Calmness prevailed, this was hardly going to be a major disaster, it was a shopping centre in Kingston and we were about 10 yards from the front door. But, we had to use it. Company policy and heath and safety rules were in attendance and we, which means me, Sharon and about 10 other customers along with their respective highly trendy hairdressers, all had to leave the place and assemble on the other side of the road in an orderly fashion. Each shop in the Bentall centre had faced the same scenario and each place had a specific part of the pavement on which to stand. It was very British, very efficient and highly organised. Clearly it must have been planned by East Europeans.

You know when you look out of a window and see blue sky, a touch of sun and some people in summery clothes? Well do you do the same thing as I do? Do you assume it's warm, that you don't need a jacket and that you're as oblivious to the cold as the average mad singer whose name is Bjork?

I did. I stood out there with wet hair, my jacket locked in the cupboard in the shop, feeling like a twat. Of course, it turned out that it wasn't just a fire drill either. So we had to wait for the Fire Brigade to arrive and declare everything safe. This took about 6 weeks. All the other customers were led to the shop's other branch on the other side of Kingston, but I, the idiot who had left his jacket inside, where no one was allowed to go until all was declared safe, couldn't go anywhere, because in my jacket was my wallet, my keys and more or less my whole life.

I spent a slightly enjoyable hour there. There was banter between the hairdressers and the customers, there was amusement at the old ugly ladies from the tanning centre opposite, all of whom had to stand in the street half tanned and wrapped in towels. There was laughter at the people from the gym, many who were straight out of the pool or shower, or perhaps just wet. They were all laughing at each other, they laughed at me, with my half cut hair. I laughed at them, the fat ugly bastards with their fake tans. It was all very jovial.

We were finally allowed back in. Sharon finished what she had started. We decided that it would be an idea for her to cut the sides of my hair shorter than she has done before but to still leave the hair there quite choppy and messy. It seems to work, you'll be pleased to know. Off I strolled, to collect the girls and go to their Grandparents' for lunch and family stuff. All was pleasant and happy.

On Sunday I met up with a good friend who I haven't seen for a while. She had a certain look of radiance about her, that glow, the one that all women recognise in each other but men just vaguely pick up, without being able to define.

As soon as I saw her I said

"Bloody hell, you look great"

She said, with what I realised immediately afterwards, was a glow of satisfaction

"Ah yes, that's because I'm freshly fu....ed."

It was a phrase I hadn't heard before. I like it. It's crude but somehow I find it very appropriate and descriptive.

I think I'll try to use it in my everyday conversation.