Jonola14

HAIRCUT

I wandered around Ealing on Saturday morning searching for a hairdresser’s and eventually decided on one tucked away in a shopping arcade. I suspected something was wrong when the hairdresser grunted at me and motioned towards a chair.

I explained to him what I wanted done. Grade 2 back and sides, cut back the bits that stick out and then keep the top a bit longer so I can style it. After ten minutes, he still hadn’t put the clippers down and I began to wonder if he did in fact own a pair of scissors at all. Suddenly, he turned on the taps at the basin in front of me and grunted once more. Shocked, I didn’t know what to do, so I just leant forward which, luckily, was what he wanted me to do. He proceeded to wash my hair with some sort of utensil that felt rather like a plastic pomegranite.

After wiping the stinging shampoo from my eyes, I sat up again only for him to push my head down and grab a razorblade. Thinking that I was about to be executed in some sort of bizarre hairdressers ritual, I was glad to eventually realize he was trimming my neckline.

When I left the establishment, I looked nothing like I had asked. More like a cross between an American militant and a second hand Slazenger tennis ball.

Still, at least I can strike that one off the Ealing hairdressers list.