Trip to the barbers
I'm just back from my most recent attempt to get my grey hairs shortened (a tricky enough procedure, as the barber's got to counterbalance this with my desire to clutch hold of any remaining straws in my thinning thatch; consolidation of keratin, that's the name of the game.)
I really do hate going to the barbers. It's not the process of getting my hair cut thats the problem - I relish the massive improvement that the results make to my already dashing looks, and I like the feel as the clippers create order out of the follicular chaos.
It's just the social part I don't like. The two people with their necks on the block before me set the bar for conversational excellence, both talking about the weather, and whether the barber's got any more holidays before christmas, before a single hair had been cut. I felt that the barber'd think I was taking the piss if I used the self-same conversational gambits to break the ice.
So I tried to keep quiet, apart from a terse "Number 2 back and sides and cut short on top, please." Jeez, just that single sentence unleashed a torrent of interrogation from the barber. "So what do you do, not at work? Where do you live? Why did you move from London? Must be quiet, isn't it? Your village'd be better if it had a proper pub - where do you drink?"
It was like the fracking Spanish Inquisition. Stuck in the chair, with no chance of escape. I think I'm gonna become some unkempt hippy. Or a skinhead.