Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Tuesday, May 01, 2007

High Barnet

And while we're on the subject, you won't be surprised to know that we Gentlemen Who Enjoy Ironing take great care over our hair on our head either. And I've been blessed with a gorgeous hairdresser, the Teutonic beauty that is Iris. Well, that is until a few week's back.

"I'm leaving," she lent in and whispered, barely audible over the buzz of the clippers.

"What - now?" I asked, lowering my Woman's Realm, and wondering if she was going to leave one side of my hair that long in a Phil Oakey style. I may be able to pull it off if I use a little more mascara than normal.

"At the end of the month. Can I have your number to take you with me?"

Well! I felt so Secret Squirrel! I passed her my mobile number under the desk, as well as a Star Bar just in case she got captured going over the wall and bid her adieu, wandering out of that salon for the last time. I'll miss it so - although the fear of bumping into a couple of my ex's who use the place will no longer be. No bad thing - what is it about hairdresser mirrors and lighting that make you a) look 300 years older and b) have fabulous hair the moment before you sit down, despite having to peg it into place for the last week because it was as lifeless as Danni Minogue's career? Not a good thing to be doing when you bump into anyone who's shared your bed - or in most my cases - towel.

Oh Iris. My Germanic beauty. I love you because you don't talk to me about where I've been on holidays, what I did on the weekend, and whether the weather will hold til Friday. I would find you wherever you went.

And yet... Over the road from my house has opened a gay ol' hair salon with chandeliers and the type of flowers you'd get in Barbara Cartland's tool shed, and is run by some mincer who moves like he's being worked by a magnet underneath the floor. I feel one should support local businesses, especially ones of the Fabulous nature. And my hair was looking like a mad woman's breakfast - all over the place first thing in the morning. And I was going out that evening... So I went there. And I admit it was with a guilty heart. It felt like I was cheating. Like I was walking into some brothel instead of my lover's bedroom. Somewhere in London, my beautiful Iris would be looking at her dusty clippers and wondering where that silly gay was who used to come in with a little too much product on, so much so she didn't so much cut his hair as chisel it.

Thankfully, my new stylist has done a wonderful job. Although he asked me to hold my own ear down while he trimmed the thatch behind it which has never happened to me before. I was glad he was considerate enough not to spear my ear with his shears, but I wondered if this happened in other salons? Do they ask Beverly Knight to hold her own ear down as they trim her barnet? Or do they get one of those multitude of ephemeral hangers-on that exist in hairdressers merely to look bored, hang around the till, and flick through Harpers and Queens without looking at the pages to do it for her?

Oh, I'm sure we'll never know. But what do I care? I have fabulous hair, and that's all we need to know.


AdamW72 said...


tornwordo said...

Lol, I read "bowel" instead of "towel". Also, you know the ears never stop growing.

Qenny said...

I hate ironing.

Shit. Am I straight?