I get my hair cut once every six months. It grows slowly. Today, I got it cut by this man. I would post a picture but you would die from the coolness of it. Also, all the pictures the Princess took before I went out are impossibly blurry and it just doesn’t look the same after playing tennis in a hat for an hour and a half (lost 6-0, 6-2, thanks for asking).
In a fit of rashness, I made the appointment for Friday at 5. This meant I had to cycle to work so that I would be able to scoot out of the office at 4.45 and be at the hairdresser’s for 5. I signalled to my loving family that I would need to cycle. Everyone wanted to know, why was I cycling to work and not going with them in the car. And then promptly forgot and wanted to know again. At work, Friday afternoon got busier and busier. I was going to be travelling for work on Sunday evening but would I be able to do then all the things that needed to be done for Monday? It was touch and go. Why, my boss wanted to know [from her car as she made good her escape to check out where the G8 will be staying – let the record show that she worked to midnight last night] was I scooting off so early? Because I want to get my hair cut. How many more people do I have to explain my movements to? All people entitled to ask and with only my best interests at heart but I wish there was a little bit of time when I wasn’t accountable to anyone and I could go and get my hair cut then.
The hairdresser put his heart and soul into it and I didn’t get out until 7 at which point poor Mr. Waffle who has a cold had already nobly fed the children and prepared dinner for the grown-ups. I ate it and then I went out to play my tennis match and left him to put them to bed. The guilt. When I got home, he was already tucked up in bed with a lemsip.