Weaslaphobia

My hair needs cut. Currently it resembles a lions arse. It’s in desperately in need of some sweet lovin however; I just cannot bring myself to go get it sorted.

Why you may ask? Well the answer is simple, I HATE going to the hairdresser. It seriously bores me rigid. Two hours of sitting still while trying to make conversation with an overly tanned Barbie doll is my idea of hell. Honestly I would rather eat a wasp than exchange awkward niceties with the average hairdresser.

I don’t think I’m an anti social person by any stretch of the imagination but there is only so much idle chitchat I can take in one session. A visit to the hairdressers normally involves the following thoroughly dreary conversation for me:

HD – So you going out tonight to show of your new hair do?
Me – No.
HD – OMG did you see last night’s big brother?
Me – No.
HD – Have you been watching Eastenders?
Me – No.
HD – So you going on holiday this year?
Me – No.

So you see, not exactly thrilling entertainment now is it? Don’t get me wrong, I HAVE tried to enter into conversation but it always falls flat on its face.

The way I see it I have 3 options here:

1. Suck it up, and endure the 2 hours of awkward silence
2. Cut my hair myself or better yet, cut it off saving me any return visits to the salon.
3. Lie

I think I’m going to have to swallow my pride and go for option 3. I’ll lie through my teeth. I imagine I don’t actually have to watch Eastenders or Big Brother to know what’s going on, now, do I?