The Diet Coke shame

It must be at least two, going on three, months since I last had my flowing locks chopped artistically, and it was really starting to show. Anyone who knows me knows that I have hair on my head and a whole lot of it. Through the passage of time it had started getting rather unruly, so I thought it time to venture to my regular hairdressers to tame the beast.

I will write a disclaimer before I start my latest ramble. I do not like getting my hair cut. I have developed an affliction where I feel the need to twitch at the sound of scissors near my ears. Now thanks to this, I sit in the chair shuddering like a mental patient having a breakdown. I try to control this knee-jerk reaction, but am still well aware of the little shakes and how this must be perceived.

I called up the salon and asked if I could get an appointment in the afternoon and a angelic voice asked, “who normally cuts your hair?” I literally shrugged at this question, not that she would get the full impact of this from the other end of the phone, a strictly audio based implement. I have no loyalty to a particular hairdresser, so my reply was whoever was the cheapest available. So I was given an appointment with Chelsea. The irony of being a supporter of Manchester United was not lost on me and I knew I would have to not poke fun, as she will be holding sharp tools very close to my scalp.

I arrive 5 minutes early as I always do to any appointment and announced my grand arrival to the lady on reception. I was walked over to a chair, plumped myself down and was told to wait. Minutes later, into my field of view arrived Chelsea. Now, not wanting to be prejudiced, but she was incredibly beautiful and looked very much like a glamour model, not that I have a problem with that. Her skin was akin to autumn sunset orange in the Dulux paint range and she was wearing an incredibly loose fitting top that draped over her curvy bits in ways a little too appealing to sit comfortably or subsequently be able to stand up straight.

Now comes the moment I always love, “so what do you want done today?” My trademarked shrug visible this time around. If I just told her I wanted my hair cut, she would look on me as a cretin, so I told her to keep it long but neaten it up, shape it and take out the weight. Expert moves from myself I’m sure you’ll agree. I was then carted off to get my hair washed, which is usually a very enjoyable experience as it’s a wash and massage rolled into one. Normally. I must have offended the girl washing my hair just by looking at her, because what followed could only be described as a scalp scrub. How could someone so tiny and beautiful be so mean?

Checking for bruising, I was frog marched back to my chair and asked if I wanted a drink. “Yes a coke would be lovely” is what I should of said, but to my eternal horror, I asked for a Diet Coke. I haven’t voluntarily drunk a Diet Coke in years. But sat here amongst all these “beautiful people” I felt like I was in an episode of Ugly Betty and had to work to fit in amongst these fashion gurus. I’m not saying I watch the show, but I’ve probably seen one too many episodes (that number of episodes totalling one). A can of Diet Coke was ushered over to me on a silver tray and I left it sitting there as a symbol of my shame whilst Chelsea went to work on my hair.

The sound of the scissors set into motion the shudders as she tried to strike up conversation. “So what are you doing today?” – I’m getting my haircut, what do you think I’m doing? “Got any plans for the weekend?” – Probably trying to erase this experience from my memory.

I’m not one for idle banter to fill the silences. If we had important things to discuss like the state of the economy or the possibility of extraterrestrial life, I would have happily shared my thoughts and opinions. Not wanting to be rude, but being asked if I have any holidays booked didn’t seem to strike a chord with my situation, so my short replies soon ended her interrogation.

Now Chelsea was more than pleasant as a person, and her need to push her ample breasts into my arm as she snipped at my hair was a welcomed addition to the experience, but remember that I said I wanted my hair kept long? Obviously she works with a mirrored version of reasoning. When I said to keep it long, I obviously meant, could you please cut a lot of it off please because it’s weighing down my head and crushing my brain.

She holds up the mirror with a “ta daa” flourish. At this stage, there’s nothing you can do. I can’t exactly ask her to put some extensions in after having it cut off. So I gave her an empty smile and nodded my acceptance of a situation I have no power over and went to go pay my money for services rendered.

I walked out of that salon with my head considerably lighter and safe in the knowledge that I can dedicate the next few months of my life to growing it back. That being said, I still had a can of Diet Coke to drink.

4 responses to “The Diet Coke shame

  1. As you grow older and like me your hair turns to fat on the belly, you will relsh those forgotten moments with Chelsea.

    You are right though, I have never heard of anyone complaining directly to their hairdresser, following the results of a reverse interpretation of instructions.

    Look on the bright side your arm had a mamarian massage and you still have your ears!!

  2. Very funny! And it made me laugh at how the experience of having a haircut is so different for men and women! :-)

  3. Pingback: That Pint Sized Pop Star Look « Simply Simon·

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