And even though I have already mentioned it here, I feel that for my own therapeutic reasons (isn't that why we all keep blogs anyway?) and to keep my own insanity intact, I need to elaborate.

Okay, so about three weeks ago I went to the hairdresser to get my Rapunzel-like mane tamed and trimmed.

This is not so much a treat as it is an absolute necessity, for if I don't have the coif maintained and contained, it takes on a monstrous life of its own, terrorizing puppies and small children and the boy when he sees me in the morning.

So as you can probably imagine, this monthly trip to the salon is a time-consuming ritual that can easily last up to a full work day:

After the shampooing, the deep-conditioning, and the painful detangling (at which time they also remove any small animals and birds that may have become entangled in my hair since my previous visit), at least one full foot of hair gets shorn from my head. That is, if I'm there for a light trim. If I've skipped a previous appointment, they aim the shears about half a foot higher.

Then comes the industrial sized, hurricane-strength hairdryer, a contraption that, when switched on "low," emits gale force winds.

But only after the people in surrounding buildings have been notified and evacuated does it get turned on...

It is LOUD! So in order to regale the hairdresser with the sordid details of my oh-so-fascinating life, I have to SPEAK UP! (Funny, but now that I think about it, she always turns the dryer up another notch as soon as I begin to speak...)

And since hairdressers are supposed to be engaging and gossipy, I coax and interrogate nicely ask her a series of non-rhetorical questions, but she keeps on turning up the setting of the hairdryer and pretends not to hear me.

In fact, the only time she speaks is when she mutters comments about the state of my hair, which I have to decipher by reading her lips in the mirror when she looks at me.

Thus I've become able to fluently lipread words and phrases like "Gorilla;" "Baboon;" "Shave it all;" (But honestly, I readily admit that it could also be "Shove it all") and "Should've never left Africa." There are a few more, but I'm not sure I can repeat it in polite company. Or yours.

Anyway, I don't really blame the hairdresser for not having the strength to yell over the din of the hairdryer. Blow-drying my hair is, after all, a labour-intensive process which lasts several hours. Especially since I get all fussy and demand to not only have it dried, but... gasp! I get all picky and insists that she blow-dries it STRAIGHT!

This results in something resembling a wrestling match. As soon as the hairdryer appears, every strand of hair on my head springs to life like the coiling snakes on Medusa's head. The hairdresser tackles them with steely resolve and a comb made of real fangs, bravely lifting and layering and combing and separating and blowdrying.

It was during this all-engrossing process of lifting, layering, combing, separating and blowdrying that I lipread the hairdresser chirpily saying the following: "Oh, yes. Your hair looks much better when it's straight."

I nodded happily.

And then, as if in slow-motion, it hit me: SHE gave me a compliment!

I knew right then that something was off. Because I knew that she would never give me a compliment and LOOK THAT HAPPY ABOUT IT!

So I mentally backed up, pressed rewound in my mind's eye, and reread what I thought her lips had said.

What I saw upon instant replay made me sit up with a jolt.

Because she said (and suddenly I understood why she looked so smug and happy): "Oh, look! You have a whole stripe of grey hair at the back of your head!"

(And yes, DON'T tell me how that didn't sound anything close to what I had lipread first. Did I mention that she doesn't really move her lips when she speaks anyway?)

She immediately summoned all the other hairdressers in the room to hold up mirrors at the back so that I could see the devastation for myself: A thick, skunk-like stripe of grey hair running smack down the middle of my head.

"But I'm not even THIRTY yet." I wailed. (And I wasn't, three weeks ago.)

So now I'm old, and I have a Skunk Stripe Somewhere at the Back of my Head.

And I swear, whenever I walk past people, I can hear audible gasps.

And when I go to restaurants and bars, instead of being carded like before, the waiter and bartender now want to know what they can get me and the Skunk Stripe at the Back of my Head.

Oh, and I need a new hairdresser. My hair has grown another foot.

Which means that the Skunk Stripe at the Back of My Head is also a foot longer.

P.S. She had a gigantic booger removed from her nose today. (Thank you for updating us on her condition! Mwah!) Go give her some love. Get well soon, girlie girl! In fact, we want you drinking heavily by Sunday, since it'll be yer birthday and all.

P.P.S. He has some tips about generating blog traffic. Listen to him, for he is a Marketing Expert. Plus, he called me a world-class blogger! Okay, fine... so I just blew his reputation as an authority on blogging. Don't worry, it was just a moment of temporary insanity on his part. He just pities me because I'm a fellow South African and I'm homesick.

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