I just came back from the Junction (Bondi) where my wallet lost 15 kilos in weight.
Kilos? Sorry. I meant dollars. It lost 15 dollars in weight.
You see, I just had my head shaved.
Just to quantify something I’ve just noticed about the way I’m speaking lately, I’m not intentionally accenting the “I” in the way I speak to make it seem all yuppie and uppety and pretentious and what not.
Lately it’s been [i]I[/i] had a vision or [i]I[/i] just had my head shaved. This isn’t [i]me[/i] going well Iiiiii feel like such an extraordinary bastard that I’m going to let loose on the world by capitalising on how I say the particle and vowel “I”. This is just the way I’m speaking at the moment… to make the subject matter sound more interesting… and funny.
Why there are even “I”‘s in the [i]italicising[/i] I’m using in the markup to various words in this blog. Hell, I bet you didn’t even notice the “I”‘s in italics up above. Single characters in italics [i]would[/i] be harder to see, mind you.
Anyway, I just had my head shaved. At the Junction, no less. The Bondi one to be precise. By a guy. From the Western Suburbs. Who was getting streaks in his hair. Why? Fucked if I know.
Okay– why the hell am I speaking in fragments? This is silly. It really is. I should just stop. I’m going to stop. I’m going to–
[b]**Leigh gets hit by a mysterious frying pan that appears mysteriously out of the blue with the expressed intent to hit him mysteriously with itself**[/b]
What the mysterious frying pan neglected to mention was that after it had mysteriously hit me with its mysterious self, it gave me an Arnott’s Mint Slice to calm me down… and calm me down it did.
So… here we go (again)…
I had my head shaved less than an hour ago at the hair place in Bondi Junction near the JB. I went in, sat down, and while I waited, heard the hairdresser who was to cut my hair discuss having children and breast size with what I could only assume was the girl having her hair cut and blow dried and blow jobbed or whatever the hell complicated procedure she was having done to it. She was a 36-something apparently. How nice for her.
Not too longer after I heard that, both the guy who was to cut my hair and her walked out. She was going to be defrizzed or something… and she looked to be in her mid-to-late sixties. I no longer wanted to know about her 36-something sized breasts.
It’s ok. I’ve got porn.
So I sat down in the hairdressers comfy chair as he looked at me and asked me what I wanted done. I told him that since there was obviously no use in denying that I was — like a good bloody portion of the population — going bald, I’d just have a shaved head down to a number two.
So he started at my head with shearers, asking if I had a good day, vice versa, if I was having a good Valentines Day, etc etc.
Nothing too unusual. Pretty standard fair, if you ask me, which you didn’t — mind you — but I thought I’d just piss all over any chance you might have at not asking me and tell you anyway.
I should probably mention that the nice hairdresser guy was from the Western Suburbs, and while he didn’t come all this way just to cut my hair, it sure sounds corny and cheesy enough to say so he said it, which brought out a minor or a lesser pointless chuckle at the back of my throat. Yup. Sure. Sounds nice, but sure.
I should also probably mention that he was getting blonde streaks done to his black hair and as such, was wearing what could only be described as the trenchcoat equivalent of a shower cap and could only be designed by the guy that thought that Gary Oldman in The Fifth Element was making a fashion statement by whatever the hell he was wearing.
Somewhat near the end of my shaved head, he asked me if I had a girlfriend, to which I replied no. I don’t. Yes, it sucks.
And why? Well… I guess girls don’t like my all that much in that sort of way. I’m an unlucky bastard, and yeah, I would like a girlfriend, but I’m not lucky in that way.
He asked why.
I said… I really don’t know, to be honest.
But feeling like he wasn’t completely content with that answer, I went off on a tangent and maybe explained it through both my insanity and the occasional nipple-focus-guy work. It wasn’t true. Well, I’m sure it wasn’t true and as such I was breaking my don’t-lie-to-people rule. But I’d already said I was direct to people — all people — no matter the issue.
That may be the reason why no girls like me… I know how to be subtle… I just don’t honestly give a damn about it.
Regardless, the answers seemed to satisfy him and he got the remaining bits of hairy hair hair off of me and I paid.
As I paid, he said “now you look 21 again”.
“I’m 23”, I said.
Oh well. Nice try on his part. I guess you can’t blame him for trying.
Still, it’s staying on my mind. Not the 21 / 23 thing. I don’t really care that he might think I look old, say in my thirties or forties. I grew accustomed to people thinking that way of me years ago.
Two things stayed on my mind at that hairdresser as I constantly held my gaze pointed at the mirrors that decorated the salon.
One was my double chin. I’m gaining weight, it appears, and I’m going to have to do something about it.
The other was the girl thing. I know I’m missing a girlfriend. I only have to hear jokes about it from pretty much every member of my family either taunting me or staying on my back about why I don’t have one and honest to Bob, I don’t have a clue why I don’t.
I can’t explain it. Girls only want to be my friends. If I could fix it, I’d have at least tried to by now.
Alas…