I’m as angry as all hell. And extremely grumpy.
Why can’t men make appointments at the hairdresser?
Why do I care? I’ll tell you why. Whenever I go to the hairdresser I have to wait 15 minutes while some bloke – clearly a walk-in – has walked into the hairdresser and asked to be slotted in.
Hairdressers rarely say no to men, as they know men won’t go away for a spot of shopping and return later. Men think haircuts are like beers. You go to the counter, order, receive, drink and go.
No, no, no, fellas. Haircuts are like first dates. You spend a lot of time thinking about colour, style, the exact best moment, you ring up and you ask properly. Then you turn up on time and make nice conversation with someone you have nothing in common with. As I say, first date.
You certainly don’t just turn up. I wouldn’t care but this casual attitude means I am inconvenienced by male inability to plan. You might say the hairdresser shouldn’t slot them in but hey, people aren’t going to turn down a job. There’s mortgages to pay, chardonnay to buy. C’mon, this is capitalism.
But if I was dictator for a day I would decree no walk ins. And if there is a walk in, then the walk in has to pay for the haircut of the person (that would be me) who he (always a he) has inconvenienced. Problem solved, everyone’s hair is cut, everyone (particularly me) is happy and 5,000 years of patriarchal haircut privileges waived. Bring it on.
My suburb has been invaded by exercise demons. They are walking, cycling, jogging and most have a look on their face that looks a bit like their internal organs are doing a fire dance with extra explosives. Which probably isn’t too far from the truth when you start to think about it.
Good for them for getting out there and exercising. But what is it with these middle aged men exercising with their shirt off? Now, don’t get me wrong. I’ve got nothing against men exercising with their shirt off, as long as it’s pretty obvious once they take their shirt off that they have been working out for quite some time. In fact bring it on! But the trouble is, not too many (at last count nil) of these guys live in my suburb.
If I’m driving to the shops in a post holiday haze, I do not want to be subjected to a beetroot hued block of chest, wobbly beer gut and gelatinous man boobs that are wobbling like they are a cranberry jelly that hasn’t quite set.
And the thing is you can’t avoid these topless terrorists. They do not skulk silently at the back of the walking pack, or jog unnoticed under the trees. No! They actually want to be noticed! They think they look pretty damn good. They are out there jogging on the road’s edge – the pedestrian path is not visible enough for them. They are on their bike opposite me at the traffic lights, sweating like they’ve just emerged from a 3 day Thai sauna.
So, topless old fogies, here’s the drill: shirt on, get back to exercising in your gardening gear. After all, what’s wrong with the shorts and t-shirt from Lowes anyway? It’s functional, practical and suitable for all-day wear. You can move effortlessly from the bike to Bunnings to the couch with a cold beer and hot chips in this outfit. Leave the shirts off to Brad Pitt lookalikes. And tell them to come to my suburb.