Harry (P)Otter and the Deathly Haircut

This week, I have been telling people things and people have been innocently/wilfully/accidentally-on-purpose ignoring me. I'm just back from the hairdressers and am still utterly confused as to how I ended up with this style. I shall explain.

What I Really Said - "Please don't cut anything off, just give me a layer and trim the back."

What My Hairdresser Chose To Hear - "Make it BOUFFANT, my friend! Heap that volumising product onto my head! Go on, don't be shy! I want it to resemble a perfect tousled beehive, or possibly a giant cake. I'm planning to attend a spoof 50s zombie party and this will be just the ticket. Oh and cut whatever you like, wherever you like, with whatever shearing tools you feel necessary. Don't mind me."

I spent a lot of the walk home frantically pressing my hair down in such a fashion that people were beginning to look at me oddly, as if I was perhaps trying  to hide an unsightly lightning-bolt shaped scar on my forehead or similar. Now, I've mentioned the hair issue in a previous post (or possibly more than one, considering I get my hair cut about every 6 weeks or so and the same thing always seems to happen even if I switch salons) and although I am still verging on Bieberhair territory, I'm not living in the centre of the Biebertropolis. I suppose things could be a lot worse.

I honestly don't know why people don't listen to me. I quite often talk a lot of sense, although no one seems to be aware of this fact, possibly because no one listens to me in the first place. Take this conversation between me and my friends last Friday night, in a local bar:

Friend 1: So, that group of girls over there...

Friend 2: Yeah. We should...

They exchange furtive, knowing looks.

Friend 1: Exactly.

Me: What are you guys talking about? Are we buying another round, because I already feel quite smashed.

Friend 1 (cheerily):  Nonsense! You're fine.

Me: I think I need to sit down.

Friend 2: You ARE sitting down.

Me: Oh. Can I have some Goldschlager?

Friend 1: Anyway, about these girls. You should go over and talk to them.

Me: Who, me? Why?! What did  I do?

Friend 1: Talking to a group of young attractive girls isn't a punishment, dude.

Me: Why me? You do it!

Friend 1: No, see... you're the bait.

Me: .....Um...

Friend 2: Yeah, you're like the cute little worm on a string that we dangle in front of hungry groups of lesbians to reel them in.

Me: I'm utterly disturbed by that...and oddly flattered at the same time...

Friend 1: Uh huh. Now go.

Me: Um, you've seen me talk to girls, right?

Friend 2: Oh, definitely. They love that whole shy, awkward thing.

Me: That's not a thing, that's actually me.

Friend 1: Well, it works. Go, young one. Return with hot girls or on them!

Me: Is that a 300 reference?

I still have very little recollection of what happened that night. I do remember on the way home around 3am, we met a guy standing outside his flat trying to call the RSPCB because there was a seagull nearby that wasn't afraid of him. The gull may or may not have been injured but he couldn't get close enough to tell and he was freaking out because he was an environmental lawyer and seemed to really, really care, whereas the bird looked like it was just trying  to have a private moment without all these pesky meddling humans around. It was funny, but odd. It's not waking-up-with-plastic-bullets-in-your-purse odd, but it's definitely not an everyday occurence, even in Scotland.

In summary, I shall leave you with this old otter saying - live like it's your last day, drink like it's your first bucket and never turn down an opportunity to play table tennis at 3am with a guy you met in an alley.