BENIGN TO FIVE
Colleagues recently began to suspect that I was a nerd. I don't know what brought them to this ludicrous conclusion: my proclivity for starting sentences with the word "methinks"? Highly unlikely. The purple hue of my Transitions lenses after a short walk outside? Surely not. My love of obscure science-fiction references? No.
I decided that the best way of changing their borderline-defamatory opinions of me would be to get a really bodacious haircut. So I rang my mum. She told me she'd broken the ceramic salad bowl last night so wouldn't have anything to guide her zigzag linen scissors. I said "Oh, fiddlesticks" and hung up.
Thankfully, on the weekend I hit the jackpot. I discovered an uber-cool barbershop with a Blade Runner reference in the name: More Hairman Than Hairman. I got there early in the morning, not wanting to miss out. There was a queue.
Once inside I was one of the lucky few to get a seat. Or, more accurately, an origami alpaca made of hard cardboard, which I straddled. I was offered "a froth", which turned out to be a beer, and then watched on as fellow liner-uppers, all of them sporting immaculate dos before they sat down, got their cuts.
When my turn came, twilight was descending. The barber said, "I'm going to assess your aura, behb." I didn't know what it meant then and I don't know what it means now, but my goodness what ensued was a good haircut. And the rest is history. Nobody calls me a nerd any more.
Got an image problem at work? Get a haircut.
Jonathan Rivett actually loathes the word "methinks". He blogs at www.haught.com.au?
