The Meeting of Paul

When I visit the hairdressers, all I require is for them not to laugh when I turn up with scary hair, and to set me loose on the London streets again with fabulous hair, and hopefully minimal bits of pesky hair down my back. Unfortunately, this seems to be too much to ask- apparently, this isn't a simple monetary exchange, it's also a test in social graces, on pain of being burned with the hair straightners-which happened twice, when I tried to read my magazine; Vogue, of course. My new hairdresser, Paul, is the conversational master of the city. He's also draw-droppingly camp, periodically breaking off in the middle of a sentence to sing along to Beyonce or Girls Aloud, dance moves perfect. And while in general I approve as this is what I spend too many of my nights doing since I got the Girls Aloud DVD, my tolerance began to wane after sitting in the chair for 3 hours, bits of shorn hair tickling my neck- I've had a phobia of hairdressers, after hearing that if a piece of hair lodges in your foot and manages to remain unnoticed for long enough, it takes root and grows. So you could, in theory, have a little bush of someone else's hair growing from your foot.
*shudder*

Incidentally, I whilst having my hair contorted into strangle and lack lustre shapes, I heard a rumour that Beyonce has had her bottom insured for many many millions of pennies- just as David Beckham's had one of his legs insured.
Why just the one? Best foot forward, and all that?
*shrugs*
I can't think what body part I'd get insured; I don't think any of its quite worth the effort to be quite honest, plus I doubt anyone would want to steal any of it anyway- apart from maybe my kidneys for sale on the black market. Although, that said, I'm quite keen to keep my internal organs intact; scars don't look good on me- I know, I'm missing one appendix. And yellow is such a good colour on some people.

But back to Paul. We spent the last hour of my stupidly long session- almost like psychotherapy, and almost as painful- debating the merits of the Big Brother housemates.
I feel like I've just lost about 50 points of IQ- not that theres anything wrong with "Celebrity" Big Brother, it's just I've had this conversation so many times in the last few days- Z list celebs are my favourite things in the whole wide world. Apart from maybe sponge cake, coffee and anime.