Dreadful Nonsense

I bit the bullet yesterday - not literally - and went to get my hair cut. As you'll know, (because I've said before, and you'll have noted it in your special notebook where you keep notes about things about me, which has a picture of me on the cover, and some scribbles down the side of the inside cover, because you were on the phone one day, and it was quite a boring conversation and your mind started wandering and before you realised it you'd defaced your special "things i know about shazzle" notebook, but it doesn't really matter because it's only on the inside page, and the cover with the special picture hasn't been ruined so you can stop crying.) I've been putting this off because (1) I hate getting my hair cut and (2) what other reason do I need? But my hair was becoming a little erratic, and so I thought it was time. I scouted around among my lady friends to see who had the best hair, but it turns out they're all mingers (hello everybody!) so I just went with the first suggestion I was given.

I went to a jolly place called The Room which I haven't been to for many years, but Moo and Banky (I'm experimenting with nicknames for my friends again - just go with it) go there, and their hair is nice, despite what I said in the paragraph above, so I thought I'd take the chance. And if it all went disastrously wrong, I could just add it to the list of places in Dublin I can never go back to again. That list grows longer each day, dear reader.

It all went well, though. With the shrieking of TLC in the background, the gently camp hairdresser asked me a ton of questions about what I did and didn't like about my hair, and then did exactly what he said he was going to do - which is UNPRECEDENTED in my experience of hairdressers - while continually checking all was well with me. This was great, although it did take AN HOUR AND A HALF to finish, which is ridiculous considering the size of my head and the length of my hair. When I cut it, it takes about five minutes. Although there is a stark contrast between the results I get and what he's done to my head.

I wasn't sure how much I liked it when I left, but he hadn't left me looking like a cartoon lesbian which is what usually happens just after I've had my haircut - people virtually hand me dungarees and doc martin boots to complete my look, such are their immediate presumptions. I went home, mucked about with it a bit, and then went out to the pub to meet Moo, Banky, Clur, Mrs Bishop and Mrs Bishop's current beau, who we're all going to call Jason, because that's what I always want to call him, even though it's not his name.

The true test of a hair cut, as everyone will know, is what reaction it receives from bar staff. We went to The International last night, in the hope of seeing some comedy (we were sorely disappointed, let me tell you). I was nominated to get the round in, and I went to the lady bar staff and reeled off the list of drinks as quickly as I could, else I'll forget them all. She asked whether I was old enough to be buying drinks of an alcoholic nature.

Did we all catch that?

SHE ASKED WHETHER I WAS OLD ENOUGH TO BE BUYING DRINKS OF AN ALCOHOLIC NATURE.

I've not been id'd at a bar for a long while. You've no idea how chirpy that made me. God bless my new hair cut, and all who sail in her.

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