I'm at the hair salon now. No, wait. Hair salon sounds far too early 90's. One almost expects to hear the jingle from that advert - "Salon Selectives! Salon shine - Like you've just stepped out of a salon!".
I'm at the hair dresser. No, I can't be. He's male. And straight. And possibly the most delicious specimen of male humanness the earth has even seen. And he's engaged to be married. (Bugger.)
I'm at the hair stylist. Oh, God. Who am I kidding? You're expecting me to leave here with a froth of curls and tendrils atop my head, aren't you?
Okay. I'm getting my hair done today. And so I've broken the first rule of Successfully Relaxing Leave: I've put on a full face of make-up. It's important to look good for the hair-cutting guy. I'm even wearing a push-up bra - an attempt to kind of look like I might have boobs. It's a pretty unsuccessful attempt. But no-one can say I don't try.
I like coming here. My ego gets massaged - he thinks I'm funny. He hangs on my every word. Then I pay him. It's fun. Kind of like emotional prostitution.
In fact, I look forward to coming here weeks before.
The hair-cutting guy and I have been friends for many moons. We worked the Durban restaurant circuit together. We jolled thick & hard together. Like it was nobody's business. Therefore my greeting is usually warm, to say the least. Today, not quite so.
Hair-cutting Guy: Pant, what are you wearing?
(I've been up since 7.)
PL: Nice to see you HCG. What do you mean?
HCG: The jeans? They're ... old. Like, what are they?
I'm wearing pre-daughter jeans. The self-same jeans that trawled the Doef-doef clubs with HCG and me. Not only do they fit, they're baggy. Like properly. I'm in a good place. I shan't let HCG's comment get to me. I shan't.
So I'm having a Brazilian straightening treatment in a minute. Now, forgive my naivety, but I thought "Brazilian" suggested a lack of hair? The very thing that is supposed to be straightened?
I'm going into this blind. The salon is pretty full. And if he asks me to drop my jeans, well, I might just.