Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Extreme Phrenology...

I finally went to get my haircut today, after about 10 weeks of growth people were starting to give me their spare change.

Anyway, I mooched to town this afternoon to see if anywhere had someone available for the necessary deforrestation. One advantage of the new work gadget is that I can technically claim to be at work whilst drinking coffee and getting my haircut.

The haircut started in the same way that most do - with the scissor-wielding snipologist trying to work out if you are the chatty type and, if so, does she really want to chat to me?*. Lots of people always have the same person cutting their hair each visit whereas I tend to forget who it was in between visits. I'm sure if I remembered, and I also actualyl booked in advance and actualyl remembered to think about getting my hair cut then this weird silence could be avoided.

That portion of the experience ended aound the time that she finished off the right hand side bit of my head, at which point we started talking about my job (which I kept brief), holiday plans etc (standard haridresser talk!).

Monica, it turns out, is from Slovakia. A fact I noticed she revealed with some trepidation. Despite being here for 9 years, she evidently still encounters brains printed by the Daily Mail. Then the subject to my country of origin - upon finding out about my glorious Welsh heritage she said 'Yes, you have Welsh hair'. I didn't quite know how to greet this news to be honest, I had no idea that the Welsh had a certain type of hair. I took this to mean that it was of a higher quality than English hair, a suggestion that caused an almost insulting amount of laughing. I speculated that perhaps I was bestowed the hair at an early age by some kind of druid, once my Welshness had been proven.

I went on for some time with various suggestions of the origin of Welsh hair (I can tell you're surprised). I probably shouldn't have, there's something discomforting about someone giggling whilst holding sharp objects around your head and neck area. I'd think there has to be some loss of control, but being the less bright sort I soldiered on.

I wondered if she could tell if I was some kind of freak just by my hair. The look she gave me indicatated that it wasn't my hair that revealed that golden nugget of insight.

Anyway, I now no longer look like I sleep on park benches and I also remember who cut my hair, though given my age and propensity for forgetting my own name I wouldn't hold my breath for that lasting.

*I do tend to go to hairdressers rather than cheap-o barbers even though I have reached the age of always getting the same haircut, rendering much of their expertise redundant, but if you haven't worked out that I am a sucker by now then you've not been paying attention.


the projectivist said...

hello Matt.
(cheery sounding greeting, i just realised)
anyway, i think the second best bit of the whole haircutting procedure is the Not Talking bit!

word verification: crimp

Olivia said...


that's funny about Welsh hair.

word verif: hutgran

Compulsively Yours...for now said...

I like men that are suckers.

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