Mock Duck

A Trip to the Hairdressers

Question: how come I invariably emerge from the hairdressers looking like Noel Edmunds? Or Margaret Thatcher? (With the former being the least offensive option.)

And how come hairdressers think that to put lots of stinking products into your hair and dry it so that it either goes solid or completely flat on top with a strange nest-like structure underneath is a good idea?

I am like Piglet in Winnie the Pooh who, mistaken for Roo, gets an inadvertent, and unwelcome, bath from Kanga and is so disgusted with the result that he has to roll through the mud all the way home just to feel like himself again.

Every time I go to the hairdressers I fantasize about doing something exciting like dying it blue - or just getting some blue stripes or something. But every time I'm sitting there, smothered in a warm towel, the words "just a bit off all round" come creeping shame-facedly out of my mouth instead.

It's the same with the products.

"Shall I put some special conditioner, some stinking sculpting shit and some mousse through it?"

No, no!

"That'd be nice," I say.

I wish I could just go wild and be a punk or something. But instead I emerge, with my solid hair, looking like a dodgey TV presenter from the eighties, stinking of sculpting shit.

Oh. Depression.

The Big Day

So, today is the day.

Sounds of celebration breaking out all over the country. Will he or will he change his mind last minute?

Yesterday he was making feeble excuses about putting it in a ponytail instead but I looked him sternly in the eye.

"Dad, are you - like everyone else - going to let him get away with it?"

He said, "You're right. I know you're right." And shook his head.

I said. "It goes. Today. All of it. And I want a tattoo. Right in the middle of your bald patch saying Blair is Gone! Accompanied by the Date. Ok?"

"Yes," he said. He looked up, a new clarity of purpose in his eye. "Yes, I will do it."

"Good. I'll be round with the scissors at 2 o'clock. Make sure you're in."

Toenail protest

My parents have been quarreling about whether my father has worn away the bath with his toenails.

This must be one of their most ridiculous arguments yet; I was completely on Dad's side.

But then, I thought, what do I know?

If you have been following this blog you will, by now, be aware that the old pater has been growing his hair in protest at Tony Blair and - to my mother's great distress - is refusing to have it cut until TB stands down. Perhaps he's doing the same with his toenails? There could be a set of 5 inch talons under his socks and sandals for all I know.

Next time I'm round I'm going to have to take a proper look at that bath.

Hair

Tomorrow is truly going to be a historic day. The Prime Minister finally going to tell us when he's off and my Dad is going to make an appointment to cut his hair. These two historic events are not as unrelated as they first seem: my father has been refusing to cut his hair as a protest until the day Blair goes.

Strangely, this protest has gone largely unnoticed by the unrepentant PM. In fact, the only person it is really affecting is my mother, who, for nigh-on two years, has had to put up with my father looking like a cross between a balding bottle-brush, Michael Bolton and Crusty the Clown.

Roll on tomorrow, I say. I'm not sure my parent's marriage can take the strain if Blair sticks around much longer.

Hair and pants

The battle of the hair continues...

Dad wanted Mum to buy herself some nice underwear from La Senza. Mum said why should she dress up for him if he won't do anything for her. Like what, Dad asks. Like cut your hair, says Mum. (In reference to my father's refusal to cut his hair as a protest against Tony Blair for two years, much to my mother's disgust.)

So, Dad buys himself some exotic underwear.

"See! See!" she yells, shaking it at me. "This just shows how selfish your father is!"
"Well, you said I didn't do anything for you," he said.
She storms off in huff.
I begin to think I know slightly too much about my parents marriage.