I usually take my mum to the hairdressers. I drop her off then go for a wander around town for a bit, take in some fresh air and then hit up a café for a hot chocolate. On this particular occasion I couldn’t and I’m glad because had I have been about the events that followed might not have.
My dad kicked her out in town, she was a little early so she wandered for a bit. It was then that she met Mr Fossett, the chap from Secret Life Of The Family, and his camel.
Mum used to go camel racing, well camel race watching, when she lived in Aden, she knows a camel when she sees one, she’s bright like that. Anyhoo, over she wanders and it is here she meets a drunk man who tells her that the camel looks as though he’s going to spit. One should always listen to the drunk, drink brings truth, mum wanders away again and heads off to get posh hair.
Now, our hairdresser is a genius, usually, but today was not her day. There was something adrift, mum couldn’t put her finger on it and probably shouldn’t have as it was a funny colour.
“It’s rather light” said the perplexed hairdresser in a tone that hinted at oh bugger.
Now my mum isn’t one to fuss about her hair, I once watched her cut off a foot of hair without so much as a mirror to see what the heck she was doing, just for giggles. This is a woman who has dyed her own hair for years and has, when the need arose, left a hairdressers and gone straight to the nearest chemist for a hair dye. Hair is not her top priority. But. This time it was bad enough for her to say
“I’m sorry but I don’t like it”
I didn’t get to see it but it must have been blooming awful for mum to get that cross. They started again and all turned out marvellously, phew. Meanwhile my dad had been sat in a car park awaiting the arrival of his gorgeous posh haired wife. It was 8pm by the time mum escaped her four hour ordeal and they were both starving. A drive through burger was in order.
They thought it was odd that they had trouble parking at that time of night but, near to starvation, they found a gap and parked up. After a few minutes it dawned on my 65 year old dad.
“I think we’re in a meet?”
“A meat what?” asked my mum as she tipped her burger up towards the light.
“No, a meet, where they come to meet”
“Who comes to meet?”
They, my parents, were sat in the glow of thirty or so sets of headlights. They now noticed the music blaring and the surprisingly shiny alloys on their fellow car park inhabitants cars.
“There we were surrounded by kids showing off their suped up cars, their lights shining onto our burgers but it was ok, at least I had posh hair”