Saturday mornings with Flower

While it sounds all nice and organised to say that I have a little hair cut-and-colour package with a hairdresser in Parkway Parade, the problem is that actually getting my hair done there with the limited weekend time available is an amazing pain in the ass. Where are the child-friendly hairdressing salons when we need them. Where am I going to find a child-free 4 hours this weekend, I would like to know.

This is exactly the reason why I prefer to nip down to the neighbourhood hairdressing shop in my condo to get the easy-but-urgent stuff, like the haircuts, done but there's always hell to pay when Alfred, my tiny little hairdresser, finds out. Alfred, when I'm sitting down, comes up to one head taller than me. He's always dressed perfectly in tiny little black clothes, and with his alabaster skin, jet black hair and perfect little pixie-pretty features, he makes me feel like if I just slap him with the back of my hand, he could fly across the room, and the scream would be so tiny and so shrill that dogs for miles would be scratching their ears.

With my permanently broken gay-dar in hand, I stare at him and wonder if he could possibly be gay. I can't imagine a girl going out with him (so breakable! so delicate!) but I really can't imagine him with a guy (again, so breakable! so delicate!). Maybe he is just not meant to date. I'm almost completely certain that I outweigh him by at least 10 kilograms.

Anyway, Alfred sylphs and swoops around my messy head of hair, lifts up a few locks and then asks me point blank if I've been seeing anyone else, haircutwise. And when I say yes, there's all this gnashing of tiny little teeth as he bemoans the travesty of the other hairdresser's work, how horrible, and how wrong it must have looked for me, because only he knows my hair and only he knows what I need. I don't dare to mention that the other hairdresser does exactly the same thing when she's cutting my hair, I think he will probably be so mad that he will swoon dead away. And then where will we be.

It could be me, but how odd is it that I am being accused by a gay guy of being unfaithful to him. Especially when he is so small. If I sat on him, he would probably crumple like a toilet roll. Frankly, I suspect the real problem is that he is just thinner, prettier and hipper than me.