A hairyfying experience

It comes to all men eventually.

We unwittingly enter the hitherto unknown domain of the ladies hairdressers, and our lives are unrecoverably damaged by the experience.

I’d done remarkably well to manage well over 40 years without going through this life-altering adventure, and it happened so easily. Back when it was summer (you know, that bit where it was really hot for a few weeks and didn’t rain), I thought it would be preferable to sit in on Mrs G’s hair-coiffuring in the air-conditioned calm, rather than wander round in the unfamiliar heat, looking at things in shops that I couldn’t afford.

The place was chilled so effectively, the furnace-hot world outside started to be a hazy memory. It is just possible that the miasma of assorted hair sprays might have caused the pleasurable feeling of detachment from the real world – perhaps that was part of the nefarious plan also. This, of course, made it a thousand times worse when I did eventually escape.

In this last bastion of femininity, I was offered cups of coffee by an impossibly slender girl approximately every minute, which either means they had shares in Costa, or were attempting to drown me so I couldn’t reveal their secrets.

Having penetrated the inner-circle, I hid out on a leathery sofa, and watched in terror the strange existence I had foolishly blundered in to.

I swear one of the stylists sprayed some concoction in the general direction of someone’s head, then sort of applauded, gently, near their hair. Dear God. What does this demonic ritual do? Summon the spirit of Vidal Sassoon?

A senior stylist was impatiently tutoring a massively be-quiffed apprentice, exhorting the baffled junior to pinch the unfortunate customer’s hair more. Pinch it!

Various ladies, in a trance-like state, sat with their heads surrounded by frames containing what looked like cracked curved mirrors, reminding me of the places Star Trek:TNG super-baddies The Borg used to hop off to for a regenerative snooze.

The decoration was resolutely black or white, which would have made Michael Jackson very happy. The music would have been right up his street too, with a soundtrack of lady-friendly tunes from George Michael, Phil Collins etc, in a 1980s soft-rock torture chamber of crooning.

The overwhelming smell of bleaching agents, expensive sprays, mousses, and various things that probably “jooshed” hair in some hard to understand manner, that most men are uniquely incapable of comprehending, was intoxicating.

I was offered the opportunity to read some of their neatly organised table of magazines. On inspection, these were all Elle, Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar. Apparently there were some “for men” but the only ones I could find seemed to be full entirely of adverts for yachts, Mercedes cars and watches whose price would have probably caused me to drop my 14th cup of coffee.

I think I was lucky to escape with my life. Not once did I hear anyone ask one of the customers if they needed ‘something for the weekend’, either.

This post first appeared as my "That grumpy it's Friday" column in the North West Evening Mail on the 23rd of August 2013, where is was wittily retitled 'Let us spray for our deliverance'. You can view the version used on the paper's website here where they removed the slightly cheeky final sentence.

I still enjoy the irony of having notable MP Tim Farron discussing a weighty topic, and me being a random source of stupidity, side by side in the Columns section.

Interesting week for this blog. The stats have shown a steady decline this year, I'm guessing because I decided not to run my Fantasy Formula 1 contest. This month has been the quietest for a couple of years, until yesterday, when 115 people visited. Maybe I should write pirate stories for Niecelets more often...

(Rock music, with strings? Whatever next! Bit of Within Temptation's "Mother Earth" currently being pomptastic on the grumpy steteogram.)

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