Odd conversations
I went to get my hair cut yesterday. It was becoming a little too much for Em to deal with. So it is now very short and curly and dark grey. The whispy white, catching the breeze like a coxcomb, is now no more.
For a Friday afternoon, it was quiet in there. Southwold is. The sort of place where ladies of a certain age get their hair "done" for the weekend. Mum used to love it.
I hate the hairdresser and hated yesterday for exposing my double chin and puffy, morphine dilated eyes but it was warm and friendly. I explained that washing my hair was going to be impossible and we settled on a spray bottle.
As possibly only I can, I ended up having a conversation with the customer on my right about wiping your bottom with your "wrong" hand. Her husband had broken his wrist the day before and he had been moaning just that morning..
"Send him my sympathy." I said.
She twinkled at me.
"How do you suggest I bring up the fact that I discussed his bottom wiping skills with a stranger in the hairdresser?" She said
"You'll think do something." I said
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