WITH the benefit of 20:20 hindsight, I can pinpoint the exact moment today when things went phut.
Due to a looming manuscript deadline and a neighbour with a vast collection of Bob Marley routinely played at Stadium Australia volume, I currently decided to ditch my London existence for a weekend away. In a quest for a geography that would invigorate me I headed ''up north''. Specifically to that part of England where the road signs stop listing town names and simply say "the north" and "the south"; where people say hello to you on the streets, and where articles in sentences are optional. This, however, is not the aforementioned moment.
After discovering that my four star hotel didn't have WiFi, my plans of writing all weekend took a slight detour. However, in an uncharacteristic glass-half-full moment, I decided to use the time fruitfully and so booked in to get my hair done at a local salon.
Upon comer at said salon a slight young thing, with hair that would not have been out of place on a member of Spandau Ballet, sat me down and started asking me the standard questions.
We agreed on what I wanted. Or so I thought. This, still, is not the moment.
She went off to mix the colours and I settled in to read a five-year-old copy of a magazine providing useful tips on decoupage and baking.
She came back and we began the small talk challenge, where she asked questions to which she had no interest in hearing the answers and I provided answers in the hope of shutting down the conversation.
About half way into the challenge, accordingly with my head half covered in aluminium foil, she mentioned that until two weeks ago her hair had been waist long. Given it was now cut in an homage to the New Romantics, this piqued my interest. ''Really?'' I say. ''Did you get it done here?''
She laughed out loud and said ''No!'' with such force that the foil strips tinkled in the breeze.
Faced with the prospect of asking her to stop half way through, I reasoned that clearly she didn't do her own hair so she was probably the talented one and I would be fine.
And that, dear reader, is the moment when, instead of getting a selection of autumnal low lights and a trim, I ended up looking like David Bowie as the Goblin King in Labyrinth.
Due to a looming manuscript deadline and a neighbour with a vast collection of Bob Marley routinely played at Stadium Australia volume, I currently decided to ditch my London existence for a weekend away. In a quest for a geography that would invigorate me I headed ''up north''. Specifically to that part of England where the road signs stop listing town names and simply say "the north" and "the south"; where people say hello to you on the streets, and where articles in sentences are optional. This, however, is not the aforementioned moment.
After discovering that my four star hotel didn't have WiFi, my plans of writing all weekend took a slight detour. However, in an uncharacteristic glass-half-full moment, I decided to use the time fruitfully and so booked in to get my hair done at a local salon.
Upon comer at said salon a slight young thing, with hair that would not have been out of place on a member of Spandau Ballet, sat me down and started asking me the standard questions.
We agreed on what I wanted. Or so I thought. This, still, is not the moment.
She went off to mix the colours and I settled in to read a five-year-old copy of a magazine providing useful tips on decoupage and baking.
She came back and we began the small talk challenge, where she asked questions to which she had no interest in hearing the answers and I provided answers in the hope of shutting down the conversation.
About half way into the challenge, accordingly with my head half covered in aluminium foil, she mentioned that until two weeks ago her hair had been waist long. Given it was now cut in an homage to the New Romantics, this piqued my interest. ''Really?'' I say. ''Did you get it done here?''
She laughed out loud and said ''No!'' with such force that the foil strips tinkled in the breeze.
Faced with the prospect of asking her to stop half way through, I reasoned that clearly she didn't do her own hair so she was probably the talented one and I would be fine.
And that, dear reader, is the moment when, instead of getting a selection of autumnal low lights and a trim, I ended up looking like David Bowie as the Goblin King in Labyrinth.
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