Years ago I wrote about my hairdresser then. She had more to do than my hairdresser now.
I went and saw her one day and realised I’d chosen the wrong time. Fergie was getting married to the porky ‘prince’ and all the ladies were glued to the telly, ooh-ing and aah-ing.
Bloody ‘Royal Family’ mania!
I can come back later, I offered.
No, its fine, she fibbed and set to trimming my locks, out of view of the Pomp-ing Ceremony.
Have you seen!? she asked in her pronounced Affies or Dirkie Uys accent.
No, not really interested, said anti-monarchist me.
Ag, Saah-ra looked so beautiful as she stepped out of the cart, she gushed.
Now my CURRENT hairdresser is something else. Saw her yesterday. Much less to do, but hey!
Presses her boobs against me; Stands with her thighs on either side of mine; Pats me tenderly; Fusses over me; Quite a performance. And charges me nothing! FREE haircuts for me.
Course, I’m married to her . . .