As I gazed around me at the floor of the hairdressing salon after my haircut, I thought, 'Surely that's at least a kilo.'
My hairdresser went a bit crazy with the scissors, like a person with a lawnmower who can't find the off-switch. I think she may have been cross with me because I rang her in the morning and begged for an afternoon appointment. ('Please, please, please fit me in - I look as though I've been dragged through a hedg - no, scrub that - I AM that hedge.')
Why would she be cross, you ask? Surely she wants the custom.
The thing is, I only ever have a dry cut. Unlike most other women I know, I hate being shampooed and frothed and dried and fluffed and puffed about in the salon - I want to get out of there and back home where people only touch me with my permission and ideally a warrant.
So she sprays my head with a garden sprayer, cuts for about five minutes, takes a paltry amount of money from me, and off I …