It started well. He shrouded me with a white cloth with only my head sticking out. There on, it was a nightmare. Alright, a nightmare's an exaggeration but let's say my senses were heightened and I was prepared to dash for the door!
After being shrouded I found myself immediately in the middle of a flurry of snips, dodging attacks to my ear and protecting the hair on the back of my neck. A combination of heavy artillery fire, planes dropping Stephen King novels instead of bombs on my head, smoke in the air and random lengths of barb-wire in the obscure distance. A quick spray of cold water to my face brought me back to reality.
He left his scissors on the table, quickly damped my hair down with his hands and switched on the clipper (Dramatic music in the background)! I quickly followed with, 'I'll have number 5 please'.
What followed was a pleasant experience so I decided to let my guard down and closed my eyes for a few seconds. When I opened them again, he was at that critical influx point where if you're hair's any shorter you'll look like an egg from a very bad alien TV serial and if its longer you'll look like a badger after a good day of digging.
He decided to give me 'the egg'.
While leaving, I made pleasant conversation and asked him how long he had been in this profession. He said, 'twenty five years'.
I said, 'Wow!' and I kindly requested if I could practice my hair-cutting skills on him.
He said, 'No'.
I said, 'thanks and good evening'.
