Re-tracing old steps

I'm back in the Channel island of Jersey for a few weeks - escaping the torrential rain of the UK. So far my time here has been pretty uneventful. Working long and hard, trying save money to fund further travels next year. I'm covering for 2 people at the moment - fitting all their hours into one week. So I'm working 3 extra hours each day - I go in at least an hour early every morning, have an hour less lunch break every day, and take no breaks during the day. My body aches a bit now. And I think I have a hernia threatening to pop out.

But I treated myself to a haircut over the weekend. I walked the pleasant streets looking for a suitable establishment to grace with my presence and found a passive establishment on tail end of the tiny city. I walked in... to a freak show. I’m used to having my hair cut by stylists that are dressed up in the latest Milano fashions, well groomed, and well kept like China dolls. Their presentation serves as a good CV for their work. I walked into this place and thought I was in a workshop for mutant body parts. Everyone was overweight and wearing floral frocks, which hung over the rolling mountains of their bellies like Christmas trees. And the hairstyles they themselves were sporting were what I imagined bad haircuts would look like in the 1970's. Abominations of hair!

The woman at the counter asked me to take a seat. I glanced around the room and the spooky piano music in my head tinkled at the upper octaves. I had the strong urge to leave. No... run! As I was about to push off my seat to make a mad dash for the door a Christmas tree closed in on me with a black gown held wide open, obstructing my own escape route. There was no way past her.

She sat me down and asked what I would like to have done - although I knew it didn't matter. I looked at her in the mirror before me and tried to act casual when her eyes parted laterally - like two positively charged magnets - when she picked up the scissors. She began cutting. I kept my composure. I gave her the benefit of the doubt and tried not to look freaked out when grease started seeping from her facial pores.

Her technique was quite methodical. Almost mathemaetical. And this filled me with confidence. But after twenty minutes of writhing in cold sweat I was starring at a bowl cut.

Her eyes converged back in the midline to glance over the final product. Her left upper lip raised up and she made a faint sucking noise - I think she was happy with her work. I quickly paid her and left.

Thank goodness for styling gel.