My New Head...

I had my first haircut of the year today:

Along with shaving off the fuzzy beard I'd been cultivating for the last month. It feels strange, like removing a motorcycle helmet you've had on for a while.

I hate going to the hairdressers, so it's something I usually only do when the need becomes pressing, which it had.

I'm not sure which aspect of getting my haircut I hate the most -

The incessant chattering: I don't really care how my barber's day has been, I would assume he'd been cutting hair and I'm happy resting on that assumption, nor do I care where they're going on holiday or presume they genuinely give a monkey's where I've been; is it too much to ask that somebody waving scissors around my ears just concentrates on not cutting them off, instead of shriekily asking whether I watched 'Celebrity Soap Star Superstar Opera On Ice' last night? Is it?

The Mirror: I generally avoid my reflection, wherever possible. I don't like my face, with it's stupid lumpy bits, crooked teeth and complexion so pale it could deflect a nuclear bomb. So to be made to stare dead-eyed at it for 40 minutes; whilst someone whips my head back in position every time I try to look away - like some horrible vanity version of Deer Hunter - is fairly tortuous for me. They should let you wear a blindfold.

Those are just two, I could bang on for hours about the price, my inability to request how I'd like my hair actually cutting, the waiting area, that thing they do with the hand mirror at the end (I don?t have an opinion as to what the back of my own head looks like, I never EVER see it) and so on and so forth.

But I won't bore you, so let's just say I hate getting my haircut, if there was the option of having it done under general anaesthetic, I would and I'd happily pay double for the privilege.

Thanks, tomorrow I will not be so ranty. I promise.