I’m not quite sure why, but about six weeks ago I decided to let my hair grow. I’d kept it fairly short for the last few years. Easy to maintain and all that. But I thought I’d have a change. And then – why not – let the beard grow too.
So here I am looking a bit of a mess. The hair grew thicker on the sides, and after a couple of weeks I took thinning shears to it. Not a wonderful idea, and not a wonderful result.
I then began to slick the hair down with gel, which made me look like Steven Seagal after a month in the jungle. It was shortly after that that I began to wonder whether I’d better visit the hairdresser after all.
As you may or may not know, I live in Holland – towards the south, which is just as well, because I read the other day about an Amsterdam barber who had been arrested for stabbing a client with scissors. OK – once, an accident, maybe self-defence. Twice? I don’t want this guy standing behind me even with curling tongs.
I don’t live in Amsterdam, but I am aware of the old saying ‘Hell hath no fury like a hairdresser scorned’.
The establishment I frequent mainly has female hairdressers. A couple of years ago the girl who had been cutting my hair for the previous six months, or so was on holiday. I urgently needed a haircut, so I switched to another girl, and just sort of stayed with her after that.
The next time I went for a haircut the first girl was there. She looked straight through me, as she coolly sashayed towards her appointment. Disdain, anger and contempt were all summoned up in that one look.
Nope. I ain’t underestimating hairdressers.
I wonder whether dreadlocks would suit me?




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