In your cold, hardened grey eyes you'll probably see this next statement and think me a floppy big wet fop, but I must confess that I have a hairdresser that I see on a regular basis. Whatsmore, I believe that all gentlemen should. Women (in general) have been doing this for ages, popping into their local salon for a bit of a cut and colour and possibly a bit of gossip too if they're lucky and after invading this world over the past few years I've got to say it's rather envigorating. My hairdresser is a rather peppy young lass in her early 20's with a fantastic smokey Belfast drawl, peroxide blonde hair and a look of contempt for everybody on her face, which I love in people, especially when it turns out they were just born that way and are actually really nice.
We've really bonded over the myriad times I've been to see her, to the extent where we have begun to confide in one another over semi-serious things. There's nothing quite as exhilarating as someone chopping visciously into your thick welt of matted hair before leaning down, their breasts pushing against your arm, breath thick and wet on your ear "He's a complete bastard, two years we were together, and then he did that to me - I've decided, I'm getting out of here, this job, this fucking city. He can burn."
At that moment I came close to grabbing her and running away off to the Big Country to start a new life. I faltered when I realised our secrets now seemed heavy and awkward, falling to the floor amongst the hair, and I knew, we both knew, that this was as far as we could go. If we walked out of the salon together we'd have found ourselves in grey reality with no more road to travel. Or even a complimentary coffee and copy of the Daily Mail to keep us going through the tedium.
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Here's a new sticker I'm going to get printed up shortly - it was to be used for something else but I'm going down a new route with that, details to follow soon.
