April 28th 2015

Today was the same day as yesterday, and the same day as the day before that. I got up, well more specifically, I woke up, led around for an hour, then got up, skipped breakfast because I keep forgetting to buy cereal, revised until one, walked to Dough to buy lunch, forgot to buy cereal, revised, walked to Tesco to buy dinner, forgot to buy cereal, revised, relaxed.

The only other thing that happened was that at one point I got a hair cut. And I hate getting hair cuts, and I’ll tell you why. I can’t stand small talk. It’s the same questions asked repeatedly, you don’t care to answer them, and they don’t care about the answer but you feel you have to answer because otherwise you sit there in silence whilst some bloke fingers your hair.

Fortunately, for me, the hairdresser I went to today doesn’t believe in small talk. But that’s not to say he doesn’t talk, because he doesn’t stop talking, he just wasn’t talking to me. He spent the entire cut talking to his colleague in Turkish. Which I am absolutely fine with. The more he talks to his co-worker the less I have to talk to him. Even better that I can’t understand what’s being said, then I don’t have to work out whether he’s talking to me or not.

I have no desire to build a personal relationship with someone who cuts my hair, so I really do not want to hear about what he and his new girlfriend are doing, (and where they are doing it), for Valentine’s day. (Which is an actual conversation I had to have with the last person who cut my hair)

My hair cuts always seem to take so long, so it’s such a long time to have to fill with completely meaningless and worthless chat.

No I don’t want to hear about your new Mercedes. I’ve seen you driving around Cardiff in it whilst looking at girls who are your daughters age. Except you don’t have any kids because you told me that, because no woman can tie you down long enough. And I shouldn’t know all of this information about a man who once cut my hair but I do, because as soon as I sit in his chair and he smothers me with that black sheet and wraps a towel around my neck then I am his prisoner. And he waterboards me with facts about his life and anecdotes from his past that are probably all made up because I’ve seen your Mercedes and it’s a pile of shit, mate.

Until tomorrow, I’m thankful for my Turkish barber.



2 thoughts on “Cut

  1. Sara J. says:

    Same. While I both admire and am willing to pay a fortune for a good stylist, I have zero interests in common with people in the hair industry. Just make me look fabulous… I don’t need to know about the latest reality show plot twist and I definitely don’t have much gossip to share in return. I work hard, I play soccer, I come to have my hair done. Awkward silence can work for us.

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