Hair cut

I looked in the mirror and a
complete stranger stared back at me. 

I've finally found a good hairdressers. Yes, not barbers, I'm over them. Hair dressers, where they dress my hair.

It looks identical, costs about the same, but I get a free coffee and Juan Pablo and I talk shopping and style, rather than football and the weather in Scotland, which after 3 years had become tiresome with Carlos Roberto. Also I'd don't have to listen to the Claudio Cannigia got his hair cut as a kid here anecdote ever again.

However, Juan Pablo took me to a place I didn't know I needed to go.

He said something, mumbled, with the inflection of a question, in a language I speak but occassionally do not understand. Rather than ruin the myth that I was fluent in his mother tongue, I simply nodded agreement.

Upon which he took the trimmer and comb that was taking my back and sides from Bushy Clowhead to Military No2, and applied the same treatment to my... eyebrows.

A veritable avalanche of clippings fell to the floor, and with it my illusions of youth.

He stood back, looked in the mirror, and proclaimed - Si, dale, mucho mejor. 

I would have felt almost miffed that I was being treated as some kind of an old age pensioner who has out of control facial hair until I arrived home. On opening the door, Katie took one look at me, gazed to the heavens, and said, as if years of praying were suddenly being rewarded:

- Oh thank God! Someone's trimmed your eyebrows!