How on earth can those two things possibly be connected I hear you ask. Good question and one that I, like you, would not have contemplated until the other day when I found myself in the hair salon for my six weekly
torture session trim. As many of you know I do not enjoy being stuck in front of a mirror for an hour at a time while someone does creative things with scissors and hair gum (what is that?!?!?) but needs must…..
I have grown to quite like my new hairdresser as he doesn’t laugh at my French, doesn’t expect me to make inane conversation about the weather or my next holiday and does a good job with my hair (yes, that does come third on that particular list). Anyhoo, this time he was busy snipping away and teeny tiny bits of hair were sticking to every centimetre of exposed flesh i.e. my face and hands; the rest of me being covered by something resembling a straight jacket…or so I thought..
Despite his intense concentration he’d obviously noticed me attempting to blow bits of hair from my own face (not easy!) and turned on the hairdryer which he then turned on me. Had I still lived in England I could have asked for this most blessed of reliefs but I don’t know the words for ‘hairdryer’, ‘itchy’ or ‘hair clippings’ in French so I couldn’t. It felt great and I started to relax again…..
It was then that I noticed a new itch; it had not been apparent when I had
red fire ants bits of hair stuck all over my face but now it was making itself known. It appeared that the straight jacket the salon had equipped me with was not altogether secure and several hair clippings had somehow found their way into my bra. Bugger.
I mean, what the hell do you do in that situation? It was not as if I could just ram my hand down the front of my bra and fish around for all the itchy bits and anyway experience told me that teeny tiny bits of hair stick! I tried to retain my composure and I think I kept wriggling to a minimum but I was praying that my hairdresser would step it up a bit so I could get out of there or, failing that, realise what was wrong and hand me the hairdryer so I could shove it down my bra. Sadly, he did neither….
30 minutes of rigorous self control later he gave me a huge beaming smile and told me that he was finished. I found it hard to be enthusiastic to be honest as my left boob was still undergoing exquisite torture. However, I did my best and asked to make another appointment. It was then that he told me he’s moving to Australia….so I need to find a new hairdresser……again. Bugger!
We said a fond farewell and I exited the salon with my head held high, before screaming into the nearest toilet where I ripped off my t-shirt and bra; the relief was indescribable!
So, there you have it, the connection between bras and hairdressers. Perhaps you have such a tale to tell? If so, I’d love to hear from you ;O)