"When will you be back??"
"Well, I've got enough saved to do me til mid-April, but hopefully I'll pick up some work and be able to stay longer"
"Eh?? Like 6 months??"
"Oh, at least. I'd like to make it 9 or so"
"What the hell am I supposed to do for 9 months??"
So, I decided, fuck it - I'll just grow it. I haven't grown my hair past my chin since I was about 21 and quite fancied the idea. I can keep my fringe in check as I always trim it myself anyway.
To cut a long story short, I couldn't put up with the 'not long enough to tie up, but too long to sit properly' length any longer.
At the beginning of this month my pal recommended a girl in the Gorbals (a pretty scary area of Glasgow). I was a bit dubious, but adored what she'd done with Christina's hair so... I booked myself in for last Thursday night.
After dodging the dog shit and stepping over a few junkies, I found the place.
"Hiya! Fancy a cup of tea? Just popping the kettle on."
"Erm, cheers, that would be nice"
"Let me take your jacket - ooh - that's gorgeous and I love your boots!"
"Thanks, I could say the same about yours - are they KG?"
"Yip! Picked them up in the sale"
After another 5 minutes or so of mutual 'I like your...', 'well, I like your ... more', Stacey set to work on my moptop.
I should mention that going to the hairdressers for me is like going to the dentist. I hate it. Hate the mundane chat. Hate people touching my hair. Hate the 'advice'. Generally find it a necessary evil and come home and attack the new style with my own scissors.
Not this time however. Got exactly what I was after. And to top it all off, once Stacey had finished cutting, out popped the 'goth dust' - ya dancer! I can't get enough of this stuff, OSiS 'Dust It'. Been using it for months and was pleased as punch that Stacey didn't even need to ask before she went about back-combing and 'dusting' til I looked like I'd been on the walzers with a can of Studio Line in a storm.
"That'll be £20, please"
20 quid?? Couldn't believe it. I usually pay between £45 and £65 for a cut n blow dry.
Whipped out my debit card, beaming about the excellent service and price!
DECLINED
Eh? I didn't get paid til the next day, but I'd checked only that morning and there was plenty of cash in my account. Maybe it was the machine. I apologised and popped round to the cash machine. Of course, it was 'out of order'. OK, no cash, no card and I'm stuck in the Gorbals...
Ah! Got new credit card in my bag. I can activate it using my iphone - bingo! Sat back down, looking rather sheepish by this point. Think my hair was even beginning to flop.
"The s-i-x-t-h d-e-c-e-m..." etc etc
Goddamn automated service.
"Sorry. Please repeat your date of birth"
"Sorry. Please repeat your date of birth"
"Sorry. Please repeat your date of birth"
Shit!! No worky. What the hell am I going to do now? Offer to give her my leather jacket she liked so much?? Not really an option. It was pissing it down outside and anyhow, my jacket cost way more than 20 quid!
"Will you take payment over the phone?"
"Erm...ok..."
"Hi honey. I need you to do me a favour. I'll explain when I get home. Have you got your bank card handy? Can you pay the hairdresser 20 quid, over the phone? Thanks."
Sorted. What a 'riddy'*!
*West Coast slang for having an emabarrassed red face
Topshop black leather jacket // Miss Selfridge grey dress // River Island scarf // H&M dotty tights // crap Dorothy Perkins boots
