I don’t go to a hairdresser, I go to a barber.
She weighs 52 kilos and she is a boxer and a cage wrestler. Her biceps are impressive.
Her shop is not far from my house.
Thats her washing hanging out the front.
If I sit on my back verandah its just a hop skip and jump away.
Or a walk down the lane way, across one small road to that black car, across the highway, then a fifty metre walk up the main street.
Which is why she lets me walk home with my foils in so I can wash them out at home. This saves me sitting in the shop for an hour waiting for the bleach to work, paying for her to sit there with me, and then paying her to wash and dry my hair.
Win, win situation.
And really, I live in the kind of place where no one even looks twice at a woman walking down the main street with foils in her hair and a little hand towel wrapped around her shoulders.
Chicken Little is not sure about it at all.
I think I look like I just stepped off the Labryinth film set.