Ode to the haircutter.

In reply to a paragon of English grooming, I feel the need to point out an often-overlooked but crucial difference lurking in the heart of our society. Hairdressers vs. haircutters, people.

You might think it's a meaningless semantic difference, but let me assure you it ain't so.
Hair cutters are a whole different breed to their effeminate cousins, the hairdressers.

Let us all gather to bemoan the hairstyle that fleetingly appeared in the oddly lit salon mirror, coaxed forth with copious blowdrying, straightening and litres of product applied in baffling combination.

Let us bewail the glamor hair that will never, ever appear again, despite your best efforts at home. I blame celebrity culture.

Glossy mags provoke us all to say "OOh, I want the pob!" "Victoria Beckham, you have much to answer for. Not quite as much as Jennifer Aniston, (Friends circa 1995 - who didn't have the haircut? Come on, admit it) but a whole generation of women embraced helmet hair all over again despite the natural desires of their very own keratin.

Enter the haircutter. Be warned, you have to have the strength to utter much harder words than "I want THIS one!" while banging on the celeb of your choice (ooh, poor choice of words).

"Fix it."
And they will. There may not be obvious veins of color, but they aren't above highlights and multi-tonal effects. There may not be the latest, most dramatic Rihanna razored fringe or Ruby Rose blunt, but there will be hair which makes you look like a million dollars. That's right, you. Park your butt in the chair and let the professionals do their job, and your hair will look like the right thing every day. Or maybe I just have a genius, brilliant, worth-his-weight in gold haircutter.

wowee!

Something very exciting has happened.
I have fingernails.
Well, I hear you say, don't we all?
Hopefully. The world would be a much more disgusting place if we all walked about with raw fleshbeds on the tops of our fingers.

It might also be a happier place, as we'd bid an exuberant farewell to all those nail bars so toxic their employees wear gas masks. Mind you, a whole section of society would need to find a new hobby (aka black cash-sucking hole of finite depth and darkness).

As a long-term nailbiter, I've tucked my hands out of sight for years. Of course, violin dictates I must have short nails, but short doesn't describe the malaise I've inflicted on myself at various points in time.

Let's just say I've rarely had recourse to nail clippers and would frequently take myself off to have fake nails applied... before sinking my teeth back in and ripping them back to nothing.

You may or may not understand my excitement at finally having something to file. They're horribly wide, (my mother keeps pointing out my inability to paint them beauty-school style, which would mean painting the centre half of my nail and leaving wide naked stripes either side... it's supposed to slim nails and give the illusion of length, but I think it just makes my fingers look fat(ter)) BUT they're real. And long enough to paint red.

And really, that's all that's important.

Of course, we'll see how long this lasts.