I have crappy hair and I don't like talking to strangers, so getting my haircut is a month to month misery.
I went to my usual local cheapo place this afternoon, and God knows what they do to their stylists but the turnover of staff is such that I never see the same haircutter twice.
Until today. When Cathy recognized me. Probably because 4 weeks ago she talked me into buying some shampoo with magical properties of body and volume.
They take their customers in the order they enter, and as chance would have it, I bagged Cathy again. "Same cut as last time?", she asked. In the milliseconds between her question and my affirmative nod, my brain registered the pithy reply of "Yes, I'd like the shitty lifeless $5 cut that I always get regardless of the quality of your scissorship".
She snipped away and had the good grace to keep the conversation down to hair length and recalling that I didn't want the back of my hair 'squared off'.
Once done she ushered me over to the wash basin (I know, I always presumed you washed then cut, but not in this place). During the eternity it took to get the water to the correct temp, I looked upwards alternating between her nylon blouse sleeves and armpits, and the off-white ceiling tiles.
A quick shampoo later I prepared to get up only to remember that everyone else in the world uses conditioner.
I heard the 2 squirts into her hands, and then realized I was actually getting a head massage.
Nice as it was, all I could think of was a haircut I had in Nerja in Southern Spain many years ago.
While my stylist cut my hair with a cigarette in the same hand as her scissors, the old guy next to me was getting a wash from the 'breaking out of her blouse' teenage sex-bomb hair-washer.
As she did her stuff the old guy made groaning noises.
Think Penelope Cruz slapping the Herbal Essence on the guy from Human Centipede.