Awkward

Last week i returned to a hairdresser that I used to go to, before I found one that cuts my hair much closer to  the painfully exact and obsessive specifications I have set in my head for the top of my head. As my current hairdresser was on holiday, and I needed a haircut badly, this was my only easy option. Returning to an old hairdresser (they work in the same salon) to me feels like a prodigal animal trudging slowly back towards whomever it betrayed and deserted for another. I was pretty sure I was either going to get a revenge shite cut or something equally nefarious for my crime. Or that's all just bored dramatising on my part. Regardless, the haircut hour came and I exchanged a pleasant and crucial hello. You see, this old hairdresser in question I had to leave because a) he was a rather attractive man, and the way hairdressers need to occupy an uncomfortable comfort space around your face and head made things anatomically and biologically difficult and b) the new girl I go to does it better and how I like it. So at the time it was all a seamless and necessary transition to go from old to new, and now new to old was proving weird already. Normally I give hairdressers all my chat and indulge in theirs, and I certainly did with this one. I always thought it a customary thing to do; you and your hairdresser had a professional yet personal and specific relationship, good haircuts justly earn loyalty, and your connection with them is enhanced with friendly, inane banter. Well this haircut was not to be an overall pleasant one. The first few minutes involved some chatter of the general work, play, what festivals? nature, then everything seemed to veer towards a very natural, preferred silence. Preferred in the sense that when the talking stopped, it actually seemed to improve the atmosphere. He just got on with the snipping and when it ended, I dutifully OK'ed the front and back of my head (he cut my fringe too short and gelled it to make me look like Simon from the Inbetweeners but I expected worse in the name of revenge) and made off into the day, quickly heading for the nearest shop window to properly inspect the damage myself. I guess this hairdresser thing is probably all just hoo-hah. Maybe there's no secret code of loyalty or scorned aftertastes of customers past.

More and more often I recognise people in work that I have had past histories with, or a bare connection in the distant past with. Frustratingly any actual conversation with them beyond the bounds of general introductory chatter is a non-starter, and the general nitter-natter itself is tense enough. As tasking as work conversations can be, this added level of tense familiarity only seems to make things worse. Many of these familiaries I have avoided altogether. And now it's too late to initiate any conversation, as it'll just seem forced.

Oh well.

Tuesday Girl

Tuesday girl was thrown aback when she caught sight of her latest work schedule, that had her slaving away for a marathon number of days in the one go, effective next week until eternity. Previously her shift pattern had her drifting in and out the building a day in a go; in on a monday, off on a tuesday, in on a wednesday for a bit, in every 2nd alternating thursday with every alternating friday in between. then alternating between being in on a saturday one week and sunday the other, meaning sometimes she was in thursday, off friday, in saturday , off sunday and all sorts, and then sometimes off friday and saturday as things changed. they just changed. she didnt really care much for what reason they changed around sometimes but it suited her.

she never really wanted to feel too attached in that place. the transient working days weaving in and out of each other fitted in with her way of doing things, she came and went out of time, out of sight, out of mind.

that way, work never got on top of her and never dragged her down and set a wicked anchor down in her search for pleasure. but that time had came to an end, it would seem. due to another big change that she never really paid attention to, things were moving on and her transient days were over. she would now work set days, from saturday, to sunday, most of the morning and much of the best times of the afternoon, then monday and tuesday during the day and then off wednesday and thursday then in on a friday night.

and so it was. forever it would appear. her whitewash weekends were gone forever and hangover tuesdays were gone. she thought this was the end, her drinking groove was shattered, her adventuring times were unfeasible now. what would she do, where would she go, what would she see? she liked to listen to the drunks on the street on a vacant friday night; the drunks angry, discontent and unable to handle the moderate amount of alcohol they saved up all their energy and pennies from their drab, meaningless working week before. she liked to wander old train tracks and graveyards on an empty sunday.

wednesday and thursday became the only free days she had. at first she was at a loss but she asked Monday Boy for advice. dutifully he advised her she could go out on tuesday nights and wednesday nights, and of course there was plenty to do and see on those days.

"all your worries are for nothing." he reassured her.

Tuesday Girl took his words in her stride, but with some inherent trepidation. Trudging and plodding through a grey and dreary work week, she clumsily arrived at Tuesday evening. Throwing on a preferred pair of shoes and a suitable dress she headed out into the night. Who knew what she could expect?

Monday Boy never steered her right, and Wednesday Gal and Thursday Dude were obnoxious, vile and unsavoury creatures. But it would do for now.