11 May 2006

hair today ~ goon tomorrow

On April 7 I vowed to get my hair cut before I looked any sillier, before even booking my flight to Greece.

April 12: fly out of Gatwick, still unshorn.

March 11: Wake and vow that before the day is out, I *will* have my hair cut or I will take the kitchen scissors to the thatch and massacre it myself.

As punishment 4 dilly dallying on so vital a matter, I weed the steepest path.

March 11, 6pm: walk down to Gouvia, plonk self in hairdresser n await shearing.

Magnificent place. Don't understand a word being said but I read the room:

One lady doing the hair, 3 ladies in the chairs in various states of coiffurie; cig smoke clouds the room; coffee, vino galore.

All my Greek deserts me, which I bitterly regret because they keep saying what I discern to be, "Thank goodness the English bloke doesn't understand."

This is clearly the Gouvia village pump: they are ravaging reputations, dissecting dalliances, having a whale of a time.

Suited fellow comes in. I fear he has a booking before me but he is rep selling hair coloring. Cutter attends to him, places order and they send him out with ribald laughter.

Cool gent looks in with a "So what's the gossip?" Laughter and he too is sent packing.

I read the Greek glossies - excellent practice for learning the Greek alphabet:

B is V and real B is combi of NP. D is TH and real D is NT.

So Brad is NPrad and don't get me started on what Angelina is - just squiggles.

Lady 1 is real thug with massive jaw and wrestler bod. Her hair is in silver paper.

Lady 2 is in curlers; #3 is red-head looking to dry.

I never see how #1 ends up; #2 turns out to be a humdinger blonde with cool quiffs; and #3 ends up with those seductive just-washed curly locks that reveal her to be totally hot.

Such a transformation that I give involuntary gasp and thumbs-up. Laughter and smiles and what I dimly discern from the ribald chatter to hint that, once her old man sees her, she'll need another makeover.

Suddenly it is me and I produce my US Alien card to show how short n tidy I want it.

Everyone cops a look and gurgles and holds the card up to check the watermark.

The cutter shows me the menu and points to Wash n Cut and I nod, at which point I am led to the basin chair, everyone rearranges and i am given a head massage/wash such as would even brand the Kama Sutra as a Little Golden Book.

One day when I win the lottery, i shall have my own hairdresser and ask her to take a full 90 mins n the washing followed by a further 90 on slow snipping and alla rest they do. Finger dry finale and that'd be *my* sex quota for the week and no need to have even dropped my drawers.

I drive home and mum comments on the extreme *brevity* of my locks. I say it's exactly as I like it and recount the happy gossipy ambiance.

"You should write about it."

"Good idea. An article for "The Corfiot".

"No, just write about it and keep it on file. Keep a diary."

"That's an idea," I say.

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