This morning I went for my three weekly haircut to the local Zoom hairdresser.
There is no appointment system but if you have a preferred hairdresser you can just forfeit your place in the queue until she (usually it is a she) becomes available. I always wait until Becky is available.
I’ve mentioned Becky before. She’s a pleasant Welsh girl who just throws on one of her six work outfits in the morning (without turning the light on) and still always looks quite glamorous. I have mentioned to her that she always looks glamorous in spite of the haste in which she gets ready in the morning, but she doesn’t seem to believe me.
Anyway, today is her 26th birthday. She also had some news. Her boyfriend has finished college and attained top marks, meaning that he can go to his preferred university. They are both going to go travelling around the world before he starts university, so Becky is leaving Zoom and she won’t be there when I next turn up.
She’s already spoken to her colleagues to tell them how I have my hair cut each time.
The boss had said that she shouldn’t tell the customers that she is leaving but she wanted to make an exception with me. We even exchanged email addresses afterwards and a couple of hugs. I was really touched that she liked cutting my hair that much. My tales of picking up Yasmin at 3am on Sunday mornings obviously aren’t that boring!
I don’t have a photo of Becky to put into this blog. Well, there’s no easy way to say, “here’s the money for my haircut – top job as always. Now, say ‘cheese’.”
I know that she comes from North Wales; so – in Becky’s honour – here is a photo from Llanberis, North Wales. Just think, she left this beautiful part of Britain because she desperately wanted to be with her partner while he studied at college cut my hair every three weeks.
So, it’s late 2014 and I feel like I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster. I’ve had a few nasty things to deal with, but that’s life! I don’t feel too comfortable discussing all of the problems experienced this year by those people closest to me, I suppose.
I was having my haircut on Saturday. Nowadays, my hairdresser is a young Welsh vegetarian girl named Becky who seems to look beautiful by accident. I speak to her about my wife, my stepdaughter and my mum and she tells me about her boyfriend and relatives from Wales. She is always intrigued that Costa Coffee never charge me extra for soya milk which came up after I mentioned my Lactose Intolerance. Lactose won’t kill me but it often has a nasty side effect!
In explanation of the beautiful by accident comment, Becky was cutting my hair while wearing a long figure-hugging black dress and hair that appeared freshly permed. When you add that she’s pretty enough never to need much make-up you should get an idea of what I mean. “Are you going somewhere straight after work,” I asked. No, she wasn’t; the dress and hair were both due to her rushing out of the house. The dress was the first item of clothing she saw and she had not had time to dry and straighten her hair before leaving the house. As support of her story, she was wearing some Dr Marten boots!
Anyway, as we spoke I realised that I couldn’t remember my age. I felt like I was in my twenties again. In my twenties, I remember turning 23 and then always struggled to remember my age until I turned 30. I’m going through that same stage again – when my age doesn’t seem important enough to remember.
Is forgetting my age something that only I do?
By the way, I thought a recent photo of Gloria and Yasmin would be more pleasing on the eye than one of me.