I went and got my haircut yesterday at this place my mum usually goes to. As soon as I walked in the joint I knew I was in for a rough time.
See, I don’t even pretend to understand things like ‘layering’ and associated hairdressery words. All I want is to go in there, get it tidied up and snipped a bit so it looks a little tidier or different, and then I’m off (hopefully only losing a minimal amount of money in the process). Luckily, I’m a guy, and sexist rules determine that I get a cheap haircut.
The thing is, these people give far too big a shit about what my hair looks like. I just wanted to get it tidied up because I’m trying to grow it long again, but they’re rabbiting on and on about things I don’t even pretend to understand, I just say “Yeah, whatever, look you can shave my head if it’ll stop you blathering on about hair crap”.
So she snipped here, she snipped there, did a lot of umming and ahhing and zoomed around me an awful lot on those scary stools they sit on that have wheels underneath. (Probably a lost prop from the sorely missed Gladiators). And then they proudly show you that mirror behind you to show you the stuff they did to the back of your hair and you pretend to be happy with it and go “Oh, that looks good”.
The thing is – my hair doesn’t look any different AT ALL since I went in there. People at work today were asking me if I cancelled my haircut because it sure ain’t looking like I got it cut. It’s screwed. I only paid $16, but…. $16 buys a lot of Chupa Chups. So let me warn you, there’s a particularly strange hairdresser who can cut your hair, but give the illusion that none has been cut at all. If McDonalds ever branched out into hairdressing, they’d have this effect.
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The foyer of the building where I work in was mysteriously smelling like a dirty fart all this week. I have no theories on why this could be. I know it’s not just me, because every time someone has to go outside, they all complain about how it smells like a fart. One person is theorising it smells more blood-and-bone than fart, but personally I’m siding with the fart camp. (I didn’t think I would ever, ever say the phrase “I’m siding with the fart camp”)
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Getting back to stupid town names, Daisy emailed me to say that there’s a town in New South Wales called Big Bog. I’m sure that town is just bursting at the seams to offer us something to rival Coffs Harbour’s Big Banana and Queensland’s Big Pineapple.
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Jeb Official Bad Things: Creepy body parts
Three parts of a body that really, really creep me out are belly buttons (pretty bad, but I can deal with it unless it’s an outie); Adam’s apples (I can’t stand talking to people with Adam’s apples that jut out like an enormous prune, it freaks me out); and worst of all jowls. I’ve mentioned on here before my fear of jowls. The worst kind of jowls are old-man-flabby-cheek jowls and old-woman-flabby-arm jowls.
*****
At work today:
Girl sitting nearby me: I’m putting on some weight, which is good. I think I was underweight a few months ago.
Ms. J: Why, how much did you weigh?
Girl sitting nearby me: 40 kilograms.
Ms. J: Christ, my dog weighs more than that.
*****
I’ve noticed something. Every morning my sister carries a mug of coffee to her room to drink but I never seem to catch her actually making the coffee. I decided to do a bit of investigative research.
I knew we were running out of coffee this week, and this morning my dad had the last coffee in the jar. YET my sister SOMEHOW managed to make a mug of coffee! I went into her bedroom to ask her if she was buying her own coffee or something, but she wasn’t there. Her coffee, however, was.
Here’s the thing: she hasn’t been drinking coffee each morning, she’s been drinking COKE. Is that legal at that time of the day?
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I’ve mentioned that recently at work I moved into a new work cubicle. The unconquerable team of inefficiency that is me and Ms. J have still been kept together, and they’ve moved us in with a woman I’ll refer to as The Rock (she’s a wrestling fan). The Rock is just as much a troublemaker as Ms. J, but the problem is she reads That’s Life. For those not into the women’s magazine scene, That’s Life is a cheapo magazine full of crap “lifestyle” stories, as well as heaps and heaps of stupid, stupid puzzles where you can win things like coffee urns. It’d be far more apt if the magazine was called No Life rather than That’s Life. Anyway, The Rock fills out the puzzles in this magazine all day and turns to myself and Ms. J when there’s something that she can’t solve. Eg:
The Rock: Hmm, I need to make an anagram out of “boys” that means teenage louts. What’s an anagram?
Ms. J: An anagram…. Isn’t that off Star Trek?
Me: (decides not to intervene and offer the true definition of ‘anagram’, and let the two girls nut it out between themselves)
Ms. J: I’m quite sure an anagram was something off Star Trek.
The Rock: What does Star Trek have to do with teenage louts?
Ms. J: Not sure.
(ten seconds pass)
Ms. J: Oh hang on, I’m thinking of HOLOGRAM.
The Rock: Yeah, I didn’t think it was right.
(twenty seconds pass)
The Rock: Ahhhhh! An anagram is an operation isn’t it?
Me: (bangs head against cubicle wall)
The Rock: It’s an operation, seriously!
Me: An. Anagram. Is. When. You. Make. Up. A. Word. From. Letters. In. A. Entirely. Different. Word.
The Rock: Ah, it all makes sense now.
Ms J: You were thinking of a mammogram, weren’t you! Hahahahahah!
The Rock: No, of course not. I’m not that dumb. And anyway, there is an operation that sounds like anagram, so shut up.
Me: Angiogram?
The Rock: Close enough. Now bugger off and let me win my coffee urn in peace.