As you know, I hate doing this. Today was no exception. I was hungover and sleepy, but I knew that I needed to avoid queueing if this was going to be anywhere near painless. So I jumped out of bed, ran through the shower and arrived at the coiffeurs bright and early. At, ahem, 11am.
Apart from the guy with downs syndrome who wanted to practice his limited English on me, there was no-one else waiting. But it's surprising how long ten minutes can be when you keep getting asked "do you have any brothers and sisters" over and over again. He's a lovely guy, but next time I'm in the queue with him, I'm going to pretend to be French.
Anyway, it's my turn to step up to the big chair. The barber is chirpy, as per fecking usual, and wants to chat. I don't.
"How old are you then?" he asks. I tell him.
"No way!" he exclaims. "I thought you were at least five years younger than that".
I thank him for the compliment.
"But you know," he says, "it's harder to see the wrinkles on fat people."
For fuck's sake.
Even for a Frenchman that's just plain rude.