Before my hair salon came into existence, the building it inhabits belonged to a bookshop. I lived just around the corner when the bookshop (and later, the hair salon) was there, so I had the pleasure of visiting the place for two happy-making reasons.
I’ve been travelling to the same hair salon for nearly a decade now, even though I keep moving to suburbs that are further and further away. I may have to travel a fair distance, but it’s worth it – they look after me well, and they know me better.
The staff hassle me gently and ask me how I am, and we catch up and natter about work and writing and study and partners and everything under the sun.
They don’t rub my head too hard because they remember about the migraines. They ask me about various partners – if Apollo is ever going to come back again; how Ailuros is doing with his hair colour (he took these photos); and how my trip to Melbourne went.
So when my faux-grumpy British very hetero stylist came up the stairs at exactly the wrong moment when I was getting this snap? Neither of us said a word at the time, but when we talked about it later we both about peed ourselves laughing. And we both agreed it was a very good thing that the customer coming up the stairs behind him was utterly oblivious.
Yes – my stylist is a perv like me. Funny that
My hair’s a considerably brighter shade of red now, too …