Bad Hair Day

I’ve just had a haircut. In the hairdressers’ I was pretty happy with the style. One minute after leaving, after having “accidentally” caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window, my hair looked too short and too stupid. Hairdressers must have magic mirrors or something. Or they must put drugs in your coffee. Or the shampoo. What else could explain me being temporarily pleased with a Mohican mullet?
“Would you like any ‘product’ in your hair, sir?” It’s always wax. I’ve never had any honey or lemonade put in my hair. Why do they have to refer to it as ‘product’? Could they not find a word less generic? I don’t walk in and ask for a service. Anyway, while the bloke was cutting it, a sixteen year-old goth girl was watching as part of her ‘work experience’. She asked a number of stupid questions but my favourite was, ‘So, it is true that hair grows quicker at weekends?’ I laughed so hard that I moved my head and ended up with a stupid haircut.

Language of Love

Restaurants use far too much fancy language nowadays. Succulent pieces of marinated steak in a deliciously tangy bouillon. Chinese restaurants don’t play that game; they go out of their way to make their dishes sound unappealing - Beef testicles in spicy water. How can you order that with a straight face? Chicken insides on dry noodles? Hardly the stuff to whet an appetite.
And Chinese restaurateurs don’t do themselves any favours with the photographs they display in their shop windows. All the food they photograph looks like its been surprised. You can actually see the spring rolls putting their hands up, shielding their faces from the camera.