Last week, my wonderful hairdresser came to chop all of our hair. I have know him for a very long time and I regard him as a fantastically kind and supportive friend.
The fact that he is a brilliant hairdresser almost becomes a moot point. But I would hate to miss the opportunity to say he is the only hairdresser in the world I would let anywhere near my tresses!
When we do get together, he always wants to hear what I’ve been up to. And being my hairdresser, I feel obliged to divulge! I honestly don’t think that there’s a lot he doesn’t know about me! But that’s the point, isn’t it? We all need someone we can trust with our deep dark secrets! Someone who never judges us, but gives us support.
And so after the initial pleasantries, by which I really mean the time it took to cut the kids’ hair, we kicked the kids upstairs and the real conversation began.
“How’ve you been?” He enquired. To which I had to admit, I’ve had a couple of rough weeks.
A couple of weeks ago, I woke up with dreadful tooth pain. I rushed to the dentist (who is a friend of mine) to discover that the bash I gave my head earlier in the year did more damage than I had thought. The scar above my eyebrow may have given me a Rakish* appearance (according to a friend) but somewhat more seriously, it has damaged and killed a molar, resulting in the need for root canal work. Oh, what fun!
Whilst the dentist may be a good friend of mine, I am still terrified of going to the dentist and I felt incredibly vulnerable. In all honesty, I would rather be immersed in a vat of hot tar than “lie back and open wide” in the dentist’s chair. (Actually, that sounds a bit naughty! Ahem… I digress!). My friend Sarah has always been a complete trouper and I know she would have offered to pick me up afterwards, but I felt guilty asking.
Hell, I’m a big girl! I can get through a root canal without the need for assistance! It should come as no surprise therefore, that when an old boyfriend phoned me out of the blue and offered to look after me, I jumped at it!
He even offered to bring me a bottle of Champagne, if I promised not to be a big girl’s blouse and cry!
Well, after an hour’s horror in the dentist’s chair, we staggered over to my ex-boyfriend’s house. Despite the fact I had no feeling in one side of my face, and was dribbling, I managed to draw a glass of champagne to my lips.
Maybe it was the relief at having got through the first stage of horrific dental work, or maybe it was the combination of pain killers, alcohol and a certain sexual ‘frisson’ that still exists between us, but… I just didn’t want the afternoon to end. My friend started to worry that I would be late to collect the kids from school. But I was on a roll… I was closer to school than my own home, so I just imagined that it would only take a few moments to get there.
“It’s fine! Don’t worry!” I assured him, before realising that there was, in fact, absolutely no way I could get to school in time.
After frantically calling round a few other mothers, who might be able to collect my youngest, I staggered out of my friends flat. I didn’t have the car – and was to p*ssed to drive it anyway – and there was no way I could make it by bus. I had no option but to take a taxi.
I arrived at school, leapt out of the taxi to grab child 1, before dashing to another building to collect child 2. I would like to point out that my children were never at any risk, but I was still a little p*ssed.
Having deposited the kids with their Dad, I went out with Sarah and Running Man. I managed to get through the evening without divulging my dreadful behaviour, but on the way home, I finally confessed to my debauched state earlier in the day. Running Man was suitably amused.
“I just can’t believe you would get yourself into such a state that you would have to take a taxi, for a five minute journey, to collect your kids.” He shrieked. “What were you thinking?”
I instantly felt like a bad mother.
“But it could have been worse.” I protested.
“Worse? How?” Running Man continued.
“Well, imagine if I’d turned up with messed up hair and a glazed expression!” You know where I’m going with this, right? “He is an ex-boyfriend. And there was alcohol present. Imagine how that would have got the mothers talking!”
As the scissors snip snipped at my hair, I could hear my hairdresser chuckling to himself.
“It’s strange isn’t it? Just how much your life has changed.”
And I have to admit, I could never have guessed what a lot of fun I could have. I would love to say that I worry that I might be seen as some kind of louche mother. But the truth is…
I’m having way too much fun to care!
1. Rakish – Having or displaying a dashing, jaunty, or slightly disreputable quality or appearance.
Trim and fast-looking, with streamline angles and curves.
Oh, God! I had no idea I’d be so happy to be described as Rakish!