Age
I went to the hairdressers last weekend. Of course, we had the usual blank look from the guy who cuts my hair when I made some musical reference (”I have heard that song, but I don’t get why you are singing it?” after my, “Uh-uh-uuuuuuh, uh-uh-u-uhhhhh, uh-uh-uhhhh, uh-uhhhhh,” when he had commented on the deep purple stripe in my hair…..). When I went to pay, they asked if I wanted to book straight away, within 6 weeks because they had a special offer on. The receptionist said, “Oh, 2nd June, is that alright?”
“2nd June? That’s my birthday.”
“Oh, that will be nice, you can have your hair done, and then you can go out celebrating.”
“Well, I am not sure it’s going to be a celebration. I am thinking of going backwards, and just going into denial about my age.”
“Why?” she asked. By this time, the girl who had coloured and the guy who had cut it were also hanging around.
“It’s a big one this year.”
They all looked at me blankly.
“I’m going to be 40.”
“NOOOOO!” said the receptionist, “Really, you honestly don’t look that old, I thought you were late 20’s.”
Peter, bless him, “I knew you were old, but even I didn’t think you were that old.”
“Hey, keep this up and I promise never to go to another hairdressers, ever!”
I have put my foot down regarding my birthday meal (the family tradition, whosever birthday it is gets to choose the venue). For so many years I have gone along to 2nd or 3rd choice, because my dad is so damn fussy. “Well, you can always have a curry at the pub, where there’s food your dad likes….”
So, this time I have insisted we go out for Indian. And my dad can have whatever ‘English’ meal is on the menu, and not even moan about it.
Small victory.
I’d still rather not be 40.