Bad hair day

Had my bi-annual visit to the hairdresser yesterday as I’ve been looking like a bit of a cross between a King Charles spaniel and Terry Nutkins in his ‘Animal Magic’ days. I was tempted to ask for a mullet hairdo to provide a fetching backdrop for the ear gear, but opted instead to have a couple of inches trimmed off the ends. I was despatched to the sink and robed by the tiniest, most delicate shampooist ever. I felt like a big hulking Gulliver as she hoisted her arms above her head to do up the ties on the gown. She had a tiny voice as well, unlike her fellow shampooist at the next sink who had a belter.

“SO WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS AFTERNOON?” she belted to her victim, “ANYTHING NICE?”

“acupuncture                –               royal infirmary” came the reply.

Damn my lugholes, I thought, they’re seriously getting in the way of my eavesdropping activities.

“ACUPUNCTURE? WHAT ARE YOU GETTING THAT FOR?” enquired the belter fearlessly.

“bent knee                     –               four years”

Can’t be a bent knee, I thought, knees are meant to bend. Unless they were bending in the wrong direction? Possible, but not likely. I tried to sneak a glance to see if her foot was sticking up in the air at a funny angle. Nope. Then the belter came to my aid.

“AYE, THAT M.E.’S PURE MURDER, SO IT IS.”

At this point, a tiny voice behind me caused me to hastily retract my lughole-on-a-stalk from the ME woman’s sink back to my own. I thought my shampooist was asking me to sit up, so I did, but unfortunately I was a little premature because I was still covered in foam. And now it was all dripping down my chest.

“Do you want conditioner?” she asked again, with a very puzzled expression.


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