Tuesday, September 30, 2008

The world`s gone bonkers. Financial meltdown, rain lashing my window, bills mounting up, Saints struggling, cricket season finished, Strictly Come Dancing back on tv - no wonder we are turning into a nation of depressives.
But, in less than an hour, I shall once more place myself in the caring hands of my stylist, Chris of Larkfield, for my regular five-weekly folicle makeover.
And what a pleasure it is. Now, I`m sure Chris doesn`t see it the same way as I do. She, after all, has to stand all day snipping away, bringing out the usual suspects which form the basis of our regular conversation and no doubt wishing she was somewhere else doing something different.
For me though, I go in and report, sit down and get asked how I would like it this time - a temptation to which I find difficult to respond without infringing some local byelaw. The fact is, I don`t mind what she does, for I am content to just sit there and let her long, slender, forgiving fingers work their magic over my comatose head. I swear I will nod off one day and awake to find I have been spiked up with lashings of VO5.
I really don`t care though, just so long as I can keep going to what is a haven of refuge from a mad world. In fact, I have already asked Chris if, when the day comes that I am completely bald and should have no further need of her attentions, can I just turn up for a stroke anyway? Well, I only asked.

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