Wayne Anderson & Sadistic Hairstylists

Ponsonby Road really should have a dress-code, or some kind of security system installed to keep the riff-raff out. Yesterday, in the space of one block, I saw a dishevelled man with a “I’m homeless blah blah please give money” sign (I couldn’t help but notice his sign was propped up by a mango, which I thought unnecessarily extravagant), Wayne Anderson sitting at a bus-stop, and a wild-eyed glue-sniffer shouting at cars. I was slightly frightened, as mentally-disturbed people can be so irrational, but then, to my relief, Wayne got on a bus, so all was well.

Hair-cut today, something I generally dread, as all hairstylists seem to be afflicted with a variant kind of Tourette Syndrome. Instead of blurting out obscenities (which might, at least, be mildly entertaining), they dribble on and on like a whore’s minge, all the dull minutiae of their dull hairstylist lives.

They cheerfully ignore your whimpers of pain and discomfort, and continue their verbal diarrhoea until you suffer a boredom-induced brain haemorrhage, or the cut is finished; whichever comes first.

The best you can hope for is that the babble will eventually cause your ears to bleed, and the ensuing clots will block out much of what they are saying into a quiet, mosquito-like buzzing.

At least I am not getting the colour done as well. My pain-threshold is low.

Anyone know of a deaf-mute hairdresser in the central Auckland area? Please send me their details at your earliest convenience.