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.
I can come back later, I offered.
No, its fine, she lied and set to trimming my locks, out of view of the pomping ceremony.
Have you seen? she asked in her pronounced Affies (or Dirkie Uys) accent.
No, not really interested, I said.
Ag, Saahra looked so beautiful as she stepped out of the cart, she gushed.
Took huge self-control not to hose meself.
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 . . .