I don’t know why getting a haircut isn’t a more simple process. Take, for instance, ordering a sandwich at Subway. If you order a veggie patty on Honey Oat and then indicate that you want some lettuce, tomato, cucumber and a squirt of Mayo. You will almost definitely get a veggie patty on Honey Oat with lettuce, tomato, cucumber and Mayo. Also, if you are at the train station and buy a ticket to Barnsley you will almost definitely have a small piece of card that gives you the opportunity to travel as far as Barnsley provided you’re bright enough to get on the right train. However, for many years I have sat in the hairdresser’s/barber’s chair described exactly the same haircut/style and left each time with a completely different style (none of which have ever pleased me). So, when I sat in the chair on Saturday morning and the architect of disappointment asked “What are we doing with you today?” I wanted to say “Humiliating and disappointing me?” since that’s the way it normally works out. Alternatively, I could have said, “Just like this, only with five weeks less hair, since that’s when you last did it”. One thing was for sure, I didn’t want it like his. Red and spiky this time, blonde and floppy last time. Last time he didn’t cut it as I wanted but there I was again. My thinking of late is that I’ll make appointments and go to the same place regularly to avoid the occasional hair disaster that comes from going in anyoldplace in anyoldtown when I’m working and find myself with some time to kill. The main problem I have is that whatever is done to my hair I’ll say “That’s great, thanks”, probably leave a tip and certainly make another appointment. All this may make me sound like I’m overly fussy. I’m not. I’m largely indifferent to how my hair looks. Perhaps it’s just frustrations associated with the “I’d like this” – “I’ll be giving you something completely different” interaction and that I feel something better should come out of staring at myself in the mirror for twenty minutes whilst making chitchat with the young man disappointing me. This was our third meeting and I know all I could want to about him. I’ve assessed and formulated him and even offered some therapy.
This excitement came at the end of a week working away from home which had been intense and draining. It’s a way of maximising profits and my time. Rather than drive one hundred miles up the motorway and doing it again, largely in a similar direction, a few days later I’ll stay over in cheap hotels and squeeze in as many clients and assessments as I can. In the evenings I can begin to type up the person I’ve seen that day. By the end of the week they’ve all merged into one seriously messed up, dangerous person. Since this is work I end up in the type of hotel that only gives you the terrestrial tv channels rather than dozens of satellite ones and gives you a complimentary bar of soap the thickness of a postage stamp rather than some complimentary bottles of shower gel. I can’t pretend it was all work though since I got stood up twice. This can be very frustrating but is worse for the client since judges tend to frown on failure to attend for psychological assessment.
Since this left me with several hours to kill until the next appointment or the time when I could check into the hotel I went to the cinema. I’m sure I could have shopped, gone to a museum or sat in my car and read a book but once the solicitor and I had realised their client had committed a major error I was out searching for the town’s cinema. I had little choice but to watch the next film starting. On Thursday this policy yielded ‘The Town’ which I loved, although it was about criminals and psychopaths doing dreadful things to nice people so was just like work. Since I was wearing my suit and carrying a briefcase I felt obliged to explain to the girl who sold me my ticket that I’d been stood up by a client and was killing time in case she thought I was one of those wears-a-suit-to-the-cinema-in-the-daytime-perverts. The next day when I was stood up the next film showing after my arrival was ‘The Other Guys’. It was a dog of a film and howled from beginning to end. Again, I explained to the girl who sold the ticket what I was doing. She probably thought I was one of those weirdly-tells-me-his-life-story-like-I-give-a-shit-perverts. I returned to Vikki’s late Friday evening.
On Saturday morning Marianna and I went to in-toto to finalise the kitchen design and requirements. Somehow Marianna had negotiated the supermodel kitchen at an Airfix model price she’s wanted for the last few months. Then there was a visit to the house so I could review the week’s work. Of course there was post there. We haven’t had a door or letter box for months and there’s been a redirection to a PO Box in place and yet at least once a week the postman will hand post to a builder or rest it next to a newly built wall. We ring and complain but they’re completely indifferent to this.
Then I went to the hairdresser’s; “What are we doing with you today?”
