The Rev Jack's Diary
Created | Updated May 11, 2005
The Saga Continues
Why is my hair taking on the look of a 1960s Eastern Bloc dictator? A second division football managers' hair I wouldn't mind, but a second class Eastern Bloc dictator! Christ almighty! I can't even be a soviet one! Arggghh!
'Are you going to be long in there?' my missus asks.
'I'll be out in a moment!' I reply. But the thought remains in my head as I head off downstairs to the living room to pick up the car keys as we're off out.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The drive to the dinner party was nice, pleasant enough! We arrive and get out of the car! We're not the first but discreetly late! Our hostess is ever so slightly flustered to be convincing. I'm in social
mode. I can do this about twice a year on the whole, bearing in mind that dinner parties bring the very worst out in me - sorry but they do - dressing up in some uncomfortable clobber trying to be all 'sweetness and light' to the other guests, eating the most inedible cuisine ever. I never understand why the hostess has to try something 'new' and 'experimental' for the 'first' time when I think it would be much safer to go down to the local 'fish and chip' shop. A quick questionnaire at the front door, when you arrive, and then phone in the order. Pick it up around eight pm and there you are - no worries! Even the washing up is taken care of as the 'fish & chips' can be eaten in the paper it arrives in. Simple innit! But no, time after time, dinner party after dinner party you attended in the past seems to be the same!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'You're sat next to Pam (29)' she says and then 'it's a boy, girl, boy, girl thing' she carries on! Nothing new and exciting there then.
'How novel!' I say under my breath. I take a small sharp dig in the ribs from my missus and I put on my best smile.
'Pam? Is it (29)?' I say as I sit down. I get no response from 'Pam (29)' so I try again.
'Hello?' I say.
'I heard you perfectly well the first time!' says Pam (29) with a well-rehearsed look through some trendy glasses. I smile back! I feel a slight knock on my left leg.
'Don't worry, she's just lost her job' the voice on my left says in a hushed tone. I turn around to face the voice.
'Sally Toms! And you?' she introduces herself.
'Jack' I say.
'And just what does Jack do for a living?' she inquires.
'I'm a Senior Mechanic!' I say but, before anything else, Pam (29) butts in and says;
'So it's you smelling of oil!' The rest of the people sat at the table just look at us. I turn and look at the 'Pam' (29). Taking my left hand and turning the forefinger and thumb into a letter 'L' I just mouth the words 'loser' at the 'Pam' (29) and then wait for the torrent of abuse that's to come my way! She just bursts into tears! Everyone looks at me and it was my fault!
I look at the missus. She gives me the 'I can't take you anywhere'
look and I start to wonder if I can do anything right. Apparently not
according to the gathered throng. We are asked to leave by the hostess, the front door is firmly shut behind us and we walk to the car.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
'Just what is wrong with your hair?' she says. I remember the conversation I had with myself in the mirror.
'Nothing. It's sort of taken on a life of it's own.' I say. She stops mid-stride and looks at my hair.
'I think a visit to my hair dresser. I'll book you in tomorrow.' she says thoughtfully.
'I'm a bloke and blokes like to go to the barbers, not some poof of a hair dresser floating around flicking at your hair. I want my barber to invite me to purchase condom's by saying in a deep manly voice 'something for the weekend sir!' Not 'you need to have some natural
highlights added' Christ No I AIN'T GOING.' I say.
'Nonsense, you're going!' she says and that is that!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The past week has passed quickly, too quickly really. The smell of ammonia greets me and she is wearing a strange tan, too. I look at my
missus.
'Son't panic! Hang in there.' she says. Now I'm getting scared.
I have never been good around women and especially when they are 'on mass' and in an environment which is totally theirs. I'm sat in a chair having my hair washed (never had someone wash my hair in a public place before).
'Receding!' a voice says.
'Yes, he is!' says another voice.
'We can do something with it!' the third voice says. I open one eye to be greeted by three women and a poof of a bloke standing around me. I'm now really terrified at this point. I move to get up out of the chair.
'Ho no! You're not getting away. You're having a hair style if it kills me!' she says.
'It can be arranged!' I say under my breath. So I'm not to have a 'hair cut' but a 'style'. This is not good, but what to do? Feign illness? An option! I could say it was the chemicals in the shampoo, reacted with the ammonia in the atmosphere, which in turn due to osmosis addled my brain causing me to run out of the salon... salON, SALON!!! I'm beginning to use the correct name for this type of barber shop. I'm out of here!
Three strides and the use of two stun grenades and I'm outside breathing fresh air, my hair still damp but drying in the warm sunshine. I head off towards the nearest pub and the safety of a bar.
'Pint of bitter.' I say grabbing a stool by the bar.
'You look a bit flustered mate!' says the barman.
'Yeah, it's been one of those days!' I say.
'Ahh, why don't you have one off the top shelf?' he replies. I think for a minute but decline the offer. If I had been really clever I would have been watching the windows. I would have seen the 'girl's' ha! Girl's indeed (all of them could be collecting the state pension) looking for me.
I'm on my second pint when, in my left ear I hear 'got'cha'. It's one of the 'girls!' I'm in the mood for another pint not a hair 'style' so I say
'Apparently you have.' She thinks I'm going to come with her back to the 'salon' but the re-education is going to be swift and complete.
'Come on, then. If you're quick you can come back and have another pint.' she says.
'And if I don't go back to the 'salon' I can have another two pints and something off the top shelf!' I say. I was hoping this would be enough to back her out the door but, no! She is still stood there, glaring as women do. Well sticks and stones and another pint, too, I think!
My hair is now dry and, as I look in the mirror behind the bar, I'm
looking good. My stubble is starting to poke through the skin, my hair is now looking spiky. 'Coolio' I think! Then I'm brought back to the real world.
'So you're not coming back to the 'salon' then?' she says with a slight touch of pathos.
'I think I'll stay in the pub, thank you.' I say not even looking at her. I am being pleasant to her as I have a beer and a packet of crisps on the go. My missus is shopping so she'll be in a good mood for the rest of the day - fingers crossed she won't notice my hair.
'Just get back to the shop and get your hair cut, now!' I know that voice! I turn to face it and there she is, her face contorted like she wearing a pair of tight shoes.
'How did the shopping go, then? Got some nice bargains?' I
say hoping to defuse the situation. But, no, not a chance. I finish my
beer, getting to my feet to do a runner.
'Don't even think about it.' she says and then 'Get yourself to the shop, now! I'm not having you look like a cinder picker.' I'm just not going to get out of this!
My hair has been rewashed and I'm sat in the chair in front of a
mirror. Through it I can see a busty young girl holding a pair of scissors walking over to where I'm sat. She arrives.
'Just a trim, please.' I say. She looks at me through the mirror and says;
'Who's the professional here?!' Christ I'm in the hands of someone with sharp scissors and an attitude. She starts to cut, snip, snippety, snip.
'What do you do for a living?' she asks.
'Mechanic.' I say then nothing more for the next thirty minutes till;
'There, I've finished. Fudge?' she asks.
'No, thank you, but if you got some hot chock I'll have one of those please.' I say.
'HAIR FUDGE!' she says.
'What's that then?' I say.
'Well it's a hair product. You rub it into the hair to create a style - and I can't believe you have never heard of fudge!' she says.
'Fudge it!' says the voice in the background I know so well. I am fudged. I look in the mirror and I must admit I look good.
'See you in a few weeks time.' says the hairdresser who's name
I found out was Nelli with a 'I' not a 'Y'. I leave with my missus who just keeps looking at me and sniggering and saying stuff like 'you don't half scrub up well'. Cheeky cow!
