What the fuck is it with massages. I hate them. I hate the idea of them. I don't like head massages or 'holistic' massages, or Reiki -spit spit- or any of that bollocks. I think the only massage worth while is the deep tissue masssage give by sport folk who actually know what they're doing.
Other than than fuck off and keep your hands to yourself.
Ireland has suddenly turned into the kind of touchy feely type of country that makes me want to reach for the Savlon. Between Pat Kenny kissing folk and people giving gifts like 'a day at the spa' to each other....Grrrrrr. Bleee, yack! Stop it.
Fucking hairdressers are the worst. I know I've given out about this kind of thing before, but really, can't a person go and get a haircut these days without being molested?
I was in the hairdressers early this morning, attempting a pre Christmas cut that will hold its own until sometime late in the afternoon on January the 8th. I went primed and armed as I always do with a book, all the better to cut straight through the boring, so, 'any plans for the holidays' chat. My usual hairdresser dooesn't go much for the small talk anyway, but people have been known to get muddled around this time of year, so a preemptive move usually saves one.
I was on time and my coat taken. A blonde petite girl of about seventeen ushered me to a sink and swaddled me in towels. I lay back and closed my eyes.
'That water hot enough?'
'Um. Fine thank you.'
'Are you getting a colour in?'
'Most people are getting a colour in for the Christmas.'
'And you should see the...'
Off she went blather blather blather. It was pretty disturbing how she could talk so much without the need to draw breath. It was aslo pretty disturbing how she managed to wash most of my carefully made up face during the time she was supposed to be washing my hair- and I really hate that.
But it was the massage that tore it.
'Do you want a head massage?'
'No thank you.'
'Here, I'll just do a small one.'
'I don't want one.'
'Yeah? Most people LOVE them. My mam always falls asleep when I do her. I'm really good at it. Here, just close your eyes for a second-' She proceeds to dig her thumbs into the base of my skull 'and relax.'
I yanked my self upright, spraying water everywhere. 'Look!' I said somewhat louder than I had planned. 'I don't want a bloody head massage. I don't want to hear any more about Christmas, I don't want my face washed. I just want you to wash my hair. Okay?'
'She does this thing with her face, and for a horrible moment I am afraid she will cry. I will be the Grinch who spoiled Christmas for Barbie like wannabe hairdressers everywhere.
'Okay.' She whispers.
So we proceed. She washes, rinses, shows me to my chiar in near silence.
Exhausted and bothered I sit there, grinding my back teeth together. In the mirrors I can see her talking to another of the 'washers', they both look my way. My ears are burning as I open my book.
Finally my hairdresser arrives.
'Good morning.' I say. 'Busy?'
'Christmas.' She says, and shoots me a withering look.
I beam at her.
She cuts my hair too short, but I don't mind. She did it in silence.