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Friday, 18 February 2011

Dentist or Hairdresser?

I prefer the dentist chair to the hairdresser chair, honestly I do. I love a new haircut but not the process, so usually have my fibre optic locks chopped once a year. This time I am opting for a impulse visit to the new El Corte Ingles in Tarragona.

Alice who used to be Frank is driving so we drop by the new hospital on the outskirts to see where she has an appointment next week. There are about six hundred cars parked in ditches, alongside the road, against piles of scaffolding because they have not built a big enough car park for a hospital the size of an airport. Alice is climbing over the debris in her red stilletoes and mini skirt.

A few hours later I am trapped in the hairdresser chair surrounded by ladies who look suspiciously as if they should be at Crufts. Then suddenly, in the mirror, I see Paco....? What? Then Patrick (expected) then Alice strides in. Six foot three with her heels. Blond hair flowing. They have come to collect me. I am officially part of the "Dream Team". How did I get here?


  1. I don't like the process. But I usually don't like the outcome either.

  2. It's a tricky one. I feel great for a day then the following day I look my normal lopsided, untidy self.


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