Oh balls.

With the hair colour job on the house and feeling absolutely gorge, a free haircut is promised and after some telephone action a date is set for Thursday. 

Now, I need to cut.  The hair on the back of my head has gone more of a cheesy yellow than a platinum blonde and although it doesn't really bother me, being on the back of my head where I can't see it, it totally has to go. I am planning on growing my shag out a bit  though and at some point in the future envision having lovely long locks again, as inspired by my new bud Marilyn, so really its just a trim.  What could go wrong?

My wonderful friend Rox is my hair connection.  She works at a very upscale hair salon in Sea point as a colorist and has organised out of the goodness of her pure and lovely heart for one of the appy's there to cut my hair, mahala.  (Meaning for free Julie!)   Now who turns down a free haircut my friends?  Certainly not me.

I knew I was getting an apprentice from the start, which seemed totally fine as I was certain that she had had lots of training and had in fact practiced on other human beings,  but when I realised that my appy has to be overseen by a professional and when she starts off saying things like "So am I cutting up or down?" it's cause for some concern. 

Fear is the last thing you want the appy to witness though.  You don't want to broadcast it and make her feel any more nervous than she needs to be when she's clutching your hair between her fingers.  So you smile calmly, exuding an air that clearly says: ""I trust you.  You know what you're doing.  Hair?  Who CARES about hair anyway."  When actually you're thinking "That's my sex life you're clutching between your fingers bitch.  BE CAREFUL."

As Mr Cool guy who looks like just the most fabulous hairdresser ever shows poppie what to do she keeps asking:  "But why, why do you want me to do it like that.  Ag Eric, you're such a perfectionist!" and then she laughs.  I disagree with her.  I'm quite fond of the fact that Eric is a perfectionist myself.  

It's striking that neither of them have ventured to ask me what it is I was hoping to achieve with this haircut and so after listening to them debating for awhile I offer an opinion:  (cough-cough)  You know, in my experience (it being my head and all) when you thin my hair in that way you are demonstrating there, it ends up looking like my hair has been eaten by a rat sort of.  You see, my hair is very thin," I say.  Afer a moments pause they both burst out in suppressed fits of laughter and give me that look that says: "You have no cooking clue what you're talking about," but ofcourse they don't say it, they just ignore me and carry on talking amongst themselves.

At this point it all becomes a bit blurry.  I guess I can't blame them completely because I do recall myself saying someting to the effect of: "Nope.  That's not the way the girl in San Francisco did it.  She cut it MUCH shorter."  I remember the chair swiveling, the sound of hairdryers and people chatting and I distinctly remember praying to God repeatedly and saying:  "Dear God.  Right now I'm hot.  I love my hair. I love that's it's growing and that's it's feminine.  Please, please don't turn me into an a-sexual lesbian with bleached hair.

Alack alas dear reader, God it seems, doesn't believe in me.  When I looked in the mirror one and a half hours later I saw Marilyn ducking out the door in a rush, without even a goodbye, and I felt somewhat betrayed, the friendship having been so new and all.

Dear Universe,
Does this mean I have to give the balls back?