Way back when, in a former life, I spent nearly a year of it living in Windsor. A very nice place by all accounts except that for that time I was working nightshift. So my days were nights and my nights days, and the only time I got to spend in Windsor was mid-afternoon, where I would go for a walk, grab something for “breakfast” and relax before I started my shift.
One sunny afternoon I noticed that my hair was looking a bit tatty (it was usually hidden under a safety helmet) so I headed to the town centre to look for a barber. No barber to be found with a free spot, I headed in to a posh salon on spec, and was surprised to find they could do me then and there. Even more to my surprise was my hairdresser, a six foot amazonian woman in what could only be described as a belt and boob tube. Marvellous, I thought, as being on nightshift my exposure to pretty woman was mostly limited to whatever papers the contractors had bought that day.
What followed was one of the best hours of my life, as I had my hair washed and head massaged by this lovely lady, who then cut my hair precisely whilst I gawped at her in the mirror. I don’t remember whether the hair cut was any good, though I do remember paying £40 for the priviledge and being satisfied that I did indeed get value for money.
Now that was more than ten years ago, and yet that experience still stays with me, and each and every time I go in to get my hair cut, I base the experience against that memory. Indeed as I walk in, I hope to see my amazonian waiting for me in boob tube and belt, and I’m then hopelessly disappointed when reality doesn’t live up to my ideal, despite the fact that my current hairdresser is indeed very pretty. And of course yesterday I grumbled at the £30 I spent on getting my hair trimmed. Sure the hairdresser was nice to talk to, and I did indeed get a very relaxing head massage, and yet I came away thinking that £30 was expensive. I wonder whether I am setting my sights too high, and indeed whether the story I told you ever really happened like that? Still one day I hope to find another amazonian hairdresser, if indeed there ever was one.
Nightshifts do funny things to reality, you know.
