Hair today…

I’ve abandoned the ‘songs recorded by Meatloaf’ blog-naming convention, in case you hadn’t noticed. I blew that out of the water yesterday with the accurate but non-Meatloaf-song’d ‘Swindon’. Anyway…

I’m sitting in the hairdressing salon in Worcester, waiting my turn.

There are two females on the right-hand row getting treatment.

One is having liquid applied to her hair by means of the kind of brush we used to glue stuff (and ourselves) with at school, if you know what I mean?

Except instead of the gloopy, fishy-smelly white paste we used to splatter all over the place, the liquid that she’s having applied – in large quantities to her head – smells strongly of pig’s urine.

Don’t ask, just trust me on this one.

And the other woman?

She’s wearing about half a roll of Bacofoil.

She looks a right lemon. Actually, no.

Lemons don’t come wrapped in many, many layers of cooking foil.

She looks like as though she has a slightly hairy, very scary, prepared and ready for the oven, fresh turkey on her head.

I’m now looking around nervously, trying to find the form with the tick-boxes that say ‘tick here if you don’t want to look ridiculous’.

But I can’t see them.

Perhaps that’s what happened to these two females – they couldn’t find the forms either?

And!

The hairdresser who is applying the pig’s urine has a bare belly; the gap is about five inches tall and isn’t confined to her tummy – it goes all the way around.

I only mention this because if she’s the one who is going to give me a wash, cut and blow job dry then her completely naked tummy is going to be right in my eye-line.

I’m starting to panic.

Should I cancel?

Should I walk out?

Should I send a text home to explain that I’m about to look – unwillingly – at another female’s tummy region and ask for forgiveness for the sin that is about to be visited upon me?

Oh my God.

It’s my turn now!

Think of me.