I went to the barbers last week... well, let's be honest here: it's not a barbers, it's a hairdressers. With all that it entails. Used to be a time when a bloke with a beard scalped my barnet*, in a shop that smelt of Ralgex and aftershave. The place I go to these days has mirrors-a-go-go and couches shaped like a big pair of lips.
Now I don't know about you, but I'm not used to furniture kissing my arse. How can that possibly be wholesome? I barely know this couch, and yet I'm supposed to park my pert and fuzzy parts on it's lips. Mary Whitehouse must be spinning in her grave.
"So," I hear you cry, with bored and distracted abandon while you drink your coffee and contemplate stealing another thousand Post-it notes from the stationary cupboard, "why do you go to this non-testosterone-fuelled emporium of barbery**?" Well, I go because it's local, and when I started using the place it didn't have arse-kissing sofas. It had a sort of benchy thing and old copies of National Geographic, with the pages depicting naked tribeswomen stuck together with glue to stop the impressionable getting all onanistic whilst awaiting their short back and sides.
At least, I hope it was glue...
But the fact is that I like the bloke who cuts my hair and he does a good job of it. I have to look pretty for my public, you know.
Anyway, I was in getting prettified for an event for Aberdeen's society of Advocates (I know, I know: why do you need a society for a Christmas-type eggy drink favoured by aged aunts?) and when we got to the end, and I went up to the wee desk to pay my bill, I was handed a questionnaire.
Not a, 'How do you like your haircut?' questionnaire, or a 'Do you like sitting on a couch that looks like Mick Jagger's face?***' thing, but personal details.
Some of the questions were fair enough:
So far so good.
Then we get on to things like:
And it went on, and on, and on... Now I know I've been a tad grumpy of late, but I don't think it's unreasonable to say that I'm wanting a haircut, I'm not applying for a sodding mortgage. How much information do you really need to cut my hair?
END OF STORY. My inside leg measurement is not relevant to the cutting of my hair... well, unless I'm wanting an intimate bikini wax, and believe me, I'm not.
Is it just me, or is the whole Britain-as-a-surveillance-nation thing getting a bit out of hand?
* And for all you dirty-minded Americans out there, that's not an euphemism.
** As opposed to an emporium of Barbary, where people all dress up like pirates and stroke each other's parrots. Perverts.
*** Only, you know, less leathery.
**** I have seriously chocolaty hair, women try to eat it all the time (and stoned people), but it doesn't melt in the sun and leave poo-coloured smears all down my head. Thankfully.
***** Small clue: if you have to ask, no you bloody can't.
Labels: ramble, rant, Stuff about me