|||||Gloria Jones: Tainted Love||]|
First published on Facebook:
This afternoon I suddenly got an itch to blog. As my own dear Livejournal hasn’t been updated since ...*checks livejournal* wow November 2008, I didn’t seen the point of blogging, especially as there are only three of my LJ friends that still regularly update and many of the other accounts are also stagnant or deleted.
What caused this itch? Well it was a number of things really. First reason was because today is the first Saturday I’ve had off in over a year and marks the end of my time at the Social Club, which provided me with many tales for my LJ. I could complain about it, but overall it’s been very kind to me. An easy, local job which has kept me going on and off for about 5 years. There were also quite a few laughs, usually at the expense of others, but laughs none the less.
The other reason was because today I had the worse hair cutting experience of my life...and when walking home with a mixture of embarrassment and anger I thought to myself ‘shame, this would have made a classic JMAK LJ entry.’
Well to scratch this itch I’m writing this note, and maybe for old times’ sake I’ll pop it on the old LJ as well.
So I’ve wanted a hair cut for ages but I’ve been working in school and by the time I get back to Dagenham I’m always so knackered I just want to go home. Having a free Saturday I popped out to the shops and to the barbers (although this was delayed by a semi-Lamebook.com moment which caused me to run back home and change my status to avoid possible career destroying embarrassment).
The barbers I go to is run by this Turkish bloke and some other Turks, possibly his sons, but I’ve never been interested to ask. I’ve been going there for a while but I don’t make conversation, as some of you know, I believe the best haircuts, cab rides and sex are carried out in complete silence with as little eye contact and as possible.
However the owner wasn’t there today, again I wasn’t interested enough to ask why. He is the one who usually cuts my hair. He’s quite old and has been clearly cutting hair for most of his life and I’m always happy with the result. If I had known he wasn’t in I might have waited until Tuesday but I had already walked in a sat down, and it would have been too awkward to get up and leave as he had already acknowledged my presence. So anyway, when he was free I sat down and explained I just wanted my hair tidied up with a little off the top...my ‘usual.’ Well before I could say anything the barber had removed a huge chunk of hair with the razor and proceeded to sear me like a sheep.
Well what could I do? Tell him to stop and walk home with half my head shaved, looking like someone who had stopped taking his anti-depressants? Anyway, later when it comes to the cutting the top of my hair he freezes, and peers at the back of my head. He then calls over to his brother/associate ‘hey, come look at this’. Both then start examining the back of my head and say things like ‘that’s strange’ and ‘it feels odd, not like hair at all.’ One then invited some other random customer to come and examine the back of my head with them, and to touch my hair.
Just to make this clear, this is all happening without any word being said to me at all. I’m just sitting there like a bloody lemon, a lemon with apparently fascinating hair. Finally one of them addresses me, ‘you know you have many grey hairs...look at this one.’ He then cut it off and placed a long grey hair in my hand.
Well I kind of understood what all the fascination was about, it was really long, totally grey hair. But, and this was the disconcerting part, it also felt like plastic. In fact it felt and looked like those clear plastic tags which hold labels on new clothes.
Ok...so fine. Hair isn’t meant to look and feel like plastic...let’s not make a song and dance about it. However the barber clearly thought this single hair warranted a kind of parade around the shop and he did exactly that, he marched around the shop with the hair between his thumb and forefinger, held it far out in front of him and invited everyone to view and feel my weird grey plastic hair.
‘What’s going on mate’ he said in his heavily accented English ‘why does your hair feel like plastic?’
‘I don’t know, you tell me, you know more about hair than I do. Is this a good thing?’
‘Maybe, you have very good strong hair, very manly’
‘Ah, well good, maybe that means I won’t go bald.’
‘Oh no, you are going bald, you going thin on top’
Great....so not only has my freakish hair been shown to all and sundry making me feel like some kind of exhibit in a Victorian freak show (Come see the amazing man who is only 23 but has grey hair which also feels like plastic) but now my apparently thinning hair is highlighted for all. Wonderful!
So let’s just recap: first my hair is cut the exact opposite way I asked it to be, second my grey plastic hair shown to all and then finally I’m told I’m going bald. Unhappy with my hair and made a figure of fun because of its colour and texture, I suppose I had ground for complaint and leaving without paying. But no...I’m just too British and awkward for all that. So not only do I keep my mouth shut, I pay as usual and left a tip like a total mug.
The cherry on top? I come home and my brother says I look like a soldier.
Now I have to live with my awful haircut for about three weeks and come to terms with my grey thinning hair. I don’t want to go grey or bald before I’m 50, but it looks like my follicles are already giving up. I’m going to blame my Irish genes for this, it was inevitable I suppose, most of my maternal uncles are grey and bald. What can I do? Apparently JFK used to tug and pull on his hair every morning to stimulate growth and ensure a healthy thick head of hair, I may start doing that, but then again, we never got to see whether JFK’s hair would stand the test of time...what a tragedy.