I don’t like going to the hairdressers’ at the best of times. The necessary level of physical contact with a stranger makes me uncomfortable. I’ve been going to the same barber’s shop for what must be fifteen years. Even so, I feel conversationally crippled. In all my (albeit reluctant) middle-class Britishness, I can only mumble inane answers to the polite conversation offered by the hairdresser.
“What have you got planned this weekend?”
“Oh, nothing much.”
I have a lot going on, I’m a metropolitan man, I’m doing things, seeing people, I’ve got gigs coming up, but put on the spot, I can’t offer any substantial input.
“How’s that feeling now?”
“Good, yes.”
“You’ve got very thick hair!”
“Yes.”
They always tell me I have thick hair.
“How does that look?”
“Good, thanks.”
Never disagree with the person holding the scissors.
One this particular trip to the hairdresser, I experienced a new first. Today was the first time I’ve ever bled on a hairdresser. She cut my ear with scissors. I only noticed that I was bleeding when she noticed the blood on her hand. She was very apologetic and in the crippling Britishness I could only muster “Oh, it’s fine.”
It wasn’t, but that would be impolite to say.
She asked if I felt it. “Not really,” I replied.
I had felt it, but that would be impolite to say.
I don’t like going to the hairdressers’.
The Daily Spittoon 