I awoke this morning at 4.00a.m.
Partly due to a four-year-old who had managed to make his way to our room in the pitch black (but can’t go to the toilet in a black that has not quite reached pitch).
I also had a throbbing headache that appeared to be simultaneously drilling its way into the middle of my brain and both my eyeballs.
It was not looking as though I could expect a good day. Mostly because it was the kind of headache that has the fun-filled side effect of interrupting neurons and thought processes and things just get weird.
Things did get worse a little after breakfast when I was confronted by the fact the the previously referred to four-year-old was looking a lot more like Leo Sayer than I care for.
After saying for approximately three months now that he needed a haircut, I decided today was the day. This, unfortunately, required another morning of combing out dreadlocks. All it takes is one restless sleep, or playing under blankets and he emerges looking remarkably like a 1970s surfer.
Godzilla tagged along as he, too, needed a haircut despite it looking like he had one only three weeks ago. He likes his hair short, does he.
We wander across to the local massive shopping mall and enter the “we don’t take a appointments” type hairdresser. I tend to frequent these (using the word ‘frequent’ in the sense of ‘hardly ever’ in my case) places as I tend to be one who doesn’t have time to make appointments and leaves things till the last minute.
“Haircuts?” the young chick behind the counter asks.
“No, thought I’d pop along for my pap smear,” I though of replaying just five minutes ago and several hours after we left the hairdresser.
“All three of us, if you can,” I actually say. “Although, if it’s too much hassle, just these two.”
“Five minutes,” she advises.
So we sit there for twenty seven minutes, which is broken up at random intervals by me saying