‘What’ll it be,’ sighs the beleaguered hairdresser with the enthusiasm of someone naked in a bathtub, filled to the brim with sulfuric acid.

‘Spikes, please,’ I politely reply, and engage in that awful hairdressing predicament where you’re forced to confront your own realities of ugly disfigurement, and stare yourself in the eyes for a full ten minutes. Glancing upwards at the hairdresser and being mistakenly accused of breast-gawking is both awkward and potentially embarrassing for all parties (yelling “It’s okay, I’m gay,” at office parties is fine, but not necessarily so laughable in a retail environment).

Really. It’s a mistake anyone can make.

It’s not too far into the hairdressing ritual that a potentially homeless limping man donned in discounted Elvis costume loudly announces his arrival at the door of the hairdresser’s salon.

‘A little less conversation, a little more sunnies,’ he declares, as he shuffles around on the spot with his index finger not quite hurled into the air at a diagonal thrust, but rather a quivering and mournful acute angle.

This is when Homeless Elvis graciously grants himself permission to empty a shopping bag full of cheap plastic sunglasses onto the table in front of me. My hairdresser is severely unamused at this intrusion, and begins cutting my hair forcefully and faster, with her lips pressed tightly together.

‘These sunglasses are a hundred bucks cheaper than in the department stores,’ hisses Elvis at my face, with tinges of last night’s dinner washing over me. He waves his arm across his merchandise, The Price is Right style, but accidentally knocks most of the sunglasses onto the floor, where they connect with a plasticky bonk.

‘No thank you,’ angrily hisses my hairdresser. I’d like to murmur some noncommittal agreement, but all I can manage are little gasps of air as the hairdresser comes to the conclusion that yanking individual strands of hair is a much more efficient manner in which to style hair than being encumbered with the hindrance of scissors.

‘We have nightclub sunglasses, daytime sunglasses…’ trails off Elvis, leaning closer towards the hairdresser.

‘FUCKING LEAVE THE FUCKING PREMISES NOW!’ she screeches, and Elvis scampers away to his next retail victims. Then she turns to me, and holds up a circular mirror to the back of my head expectantly.

‘There. Is that okay?’ she demands.

‘Uhmm. Yes?’ I cautiously begin, unsure if the hairdressing exercise is complete at this stage.

‘Great,’ she mutters, and begins de-hairdressee-protective-shawl-ing me.

‘Uhh,’ I mention, and look up at the singular gelled-up mound of hair running through the middle of my head. Right now I have the appearance of a glistening speed bump in the road. ‘Umm. I, uhh… I did ask for spikes,’ I begin.

‘What? You asked for a spike, what are you talking about,’ she dismisses.

‘No, I think a certain someone was distracted and disheartened a little too much by a certain sunglasses salesman,’ I dispute. ‘Please fix up my hair.’

‘It’s all done, and I’m afraid I have more people waiting over there,’ begins the hairdresser with a sharp tone, waving her arm at nobody in particular.

‘This is no good,’ I look at her in warning. ‘I don’t want a singular spike haircut. I specifically asked for spikes. Now I look like that dickhead who sings in that band Travis.’

‘This is not my problem,’ snaps the hairdresser. ‘It’s your haircut now. Live with it.’

‘Well,’ I boom as I slam the door, ‘get ME a fucking BANJO and a PREDICTABLE CHORD PROGRESSION!’

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