Samson and shagging (Lesbian Hair Part II)

The more eagle-eyed and elephant-memory-ed, will recall that a few entries ago I did a botched job on my lovers thatch (as in head...oh gosh, of the head). Anyhow, I was to cut her hair, and it all went horribly wrong when yours truly got a little drunk and distracted and sheered in a disorderly fashion. Cue lover sporting a subconsciously sculpted James Dean crew cut rather than the shaggy do (yes, we're still talking about hair here) she admittedly "distinctly" asked for ("distinctly" has become inexorably linked to the request since that fateful day). I was due to have the favour of barbering reciprocated immediately after but I have been waiting for the dust settle and the memory to fade, lest recrimination rear its fuzzy head or my fuzzy head for that matter.

A month on, the time is now and I am due to put my head on a platter for my beloved. Samson style. OK, it's imperative, I have an interview coming up and I think I look like Rapunzel. Now, all of this could be avoided by visiting the professionals but I feel they waft around a title they often do not deserve, in fact some of them shouldn't be allowed to carry sharp objects (ie. scissors) as they have a sadistic streak that they unleash on unsuspecting heads. All this while waffling about forthcoming vacations- perhaps they think the only reason someone has their hair done is because they are going on holiday, but to be honest I've never really linked the two.

As is becoming evident, hairdressers really stress me out as they have no idea...
a) how to follow simple instructions (that or they think they know better what to do with your very own head and also that they have the right to do it),
b) any idea of proportionate time scale- if I pay a lot (rare) then I don't want my botty to barely touch the chair before they're flapping at my neck with a towel, if not (usual) then several hours I consider excessive.
Furthermore when I say "no mousse", this is a considered decision and one I stick to, no matter how many times another insists it is necessary. I have even been surprise squirted in the past by rebel hairdressers. I then have to endure a humiliating walk home with any small projectiles- eg. catkins, dust all sticking to the top of my head. It would be so much easier to simply walk in and say "make me look gay again". But alas, no.

Just before our wedding a few years ago, my lover and I (the two bride-to-bes) visited a hairdresser, for a "cut" rather than a "do"... only to emerge with matching fluffy bouffants. My hair is the only straight thing about me, so this is in itself quite an achievement, it really is normally straight as a dye (indeed why is a dye straight? or is it die- the lesser known singular for dice- as in numbered cube?). To make matters even worse, the hairdresser did that really painful thing (with the misnomer feathering) with the scissors that makes one's eyes water uncontrollably (note the generic "one"- it's not just me, such eye watering is universal I assert). This is not crying from pain (I say puffing out my chest), but rather, I deduce, the triggering of an otherwise latent reflex by said hair abrasion which in turn triggers the tear ducts. Never again, not even if it's the lovely Shane from the L-Word behind my chair... well OK then, now I mention it.

I digress, hair-Dress It Yourself. I have "distinctly" asked for the cut that the woman from the Matrix has. Another reason I have my lover cut my hair is that I can make these requests earnestly without seeing them smirking in the mirror. These things are reflective for both parties, someone should tell hairdressers this as they gurn and scoff at each humble request or instruction while in full view. Incidentally I wonder if an occupational hazard is that they position themselves behind friends in bars and talk over the back of their heads about Tenerife. Don't get me wrong, I am not an elitist snob, if I were I would have to snub my self. I am simply hairdresser-phobic, I see my head as a fairly important part of my anatomy and am accordingly proportionally fussy.

And so, in preparation for the coiffure, I see lover has quaffed a beer already. I am feeling optimistic and am telling myself this is to calm her nerves and loosen up her creativity. And so time for some same sex shagging (hair that is), Matrix here I come.