Monday, June 9

 It's a cold morning.  I was tempted to turn over and go back to sleep when my eyes opened at about 7 this morning, but I did that yesterday and didn't get up until 8.  I know, nothing is spoiling, but I have to have something to boast about and early rising is the best I can come up with. There's nothing much planned for today but I'll spend a little time getting the Probus financial statement in order for the meeting on Wednesday.  I'd normally do that on the Tuesday but I'm expecting a visit tomorrow from the Aged Care Assessment Team and I'd hate them to find me doing something intellectual.  

Today will probably be a day at home.  Marilyn has a couple of things for me to collect from the supermarket but that won't stretch the capacity.  We've been watching a show called A Place in the Sun where Brits are helped to buy a holiday home in one of the southern European countries.  Recently a follow-up show called A Place in The Sun - What Happened Next?, where the presenters of the show go back four or five years later to see how things turned out.  There's no action, no violence, no sex but we find the show interesting and it doesn't matter if we drop off to sleep in the middle.  

This brief piece of writing was a 5-minute exercise one day at mt writing group.  The topic was 'Hairdresser'.

It was the smell which struck me first: medicinal, sweet, intrusive, chemical, I decided.  The cheerful young receptionist asked me to take a seat and twittered that my consultant would be with me momentarily.  Consultant?  I wanted more than a consultation; I hoped she at least had a pair of scissors.  The seat was comfortable enough and I became aware of the chatter of voices from the deeper regions of the salon.  Not much basso, I perceived so I was probably the only male in the premises.  The other voices were shrill, ranging from the cracked tones of the older ladies getting their blue rinses, to the cheerful trills of the younger hairdressers.  Interspersed were the world-weary voices of the older hairdressers struggling to maintain a professional cheerfulness but failing to hide their boredom.  I was offered coffee which I happily agreed to but when it arrived I couldn’t shake the feeling that the chemicals which imbued the air must have settled in the cup and I swear I could detect a tang of hairspray in the contents.

At last It was my turn to be professionally dealt with.  The hairdresser was efficient, brusque and sensible enough to understand that I didn’t want to tell her my life story so, within a few minutes, I felt the cover being whipped away and I was able to leave.  I felt the outside cold air around my ears and knew my $30 was well-spent.