I am just back from the hairdressers, a locale I have not visited in nigh on eight months. 'Gah!', exclaimed the stylist when she encountered my split ends. I shrugged apologetically. "I am terrifically busy" I mumbled, a blatant lie. Sighing, the young man washing my hair tucked a towel round my cowed shoulders and pressed something by my feet. Whoosh! up went my feet and back I went, my startled head knocking the lip of the sink on the way. Something rumbled ominously at my back and I half-lept up, thinking I had sat down on a small animal. 'Relax' said the hair-washing boy, 'it's a back massager'.
Well. This is NOT how hairdressing salons were run in my day. I spent the rest of my shampoo giggling and wriggling. To punish me the stylist lopped off four litres of my hair and charged me forty quid for the pleasure. I tipped ridiculously as usual and came out penniless and with a chilly neck. 'It's horrible' I moaned to the mater in her library.
'Nonsense' she said, 'in fact, it's a bit like mine.'
Good grief. I'm cutting my own hair from here on in.