I hate the barbers. I think this should be fairly obvious to you, Dear Constant Reader, as there have been several posts in the past lamenting the evils of those torture chambers disguised as coiffeurs.
Today was that evil day where I must submit my head to the attention of a man armed with a miniature buzz saw and scissors. I don't want small talk, I don't want a chat, I just want to be in and out as quickly as possible, preferably with my dignity (and ears) intact. So it as a surprise when, after 5 minutes the barber had not blabbered away incessantly about some boring topic, I found myself concerned as to what might be wrong.
Was he unhappy? Had I inadvertently pissed off this sharp-instrument wielding guy? Why wasn't he trying out his latest dull lecture (such as a famous past conversation I've entitled "How supermarket offers are going to cause the collapse of Western civilisation") on me?
After years of trying to find a barber who didn't bore me with football or chit-chat, I finally find one and all I can worry about is what must be wrong with me for him to not try and make small talk! I'm truly one messed up individual.
Well you'll be pleased to know he shortly afterwards asked me if I had the day off work and I gave him a short, curt "Yes" signifying my urge not to speak to him ever again, and all was right with the world once more.
I'm one sick puppy.
If you feel benevolent and particularly generous, this writer always appreciates things bought for him from his wishlist