Do you like riddles?
Nope, me neither. They're too similar to clowns to be comfortable, aren't they?
But because this word rhymes with SCARY and WARY and .... okay, back to SCARY again. And ExtraOrdinARY, perhaps... I thought I'd be all riddle-y with you as a little teaser.
The word is... *dah-dah-dah* HAIRY. And along with alluding to something in the hirsute department, it can also be synonymously-rhymed with 'scary' and 'wary' too - so altogether a nice little bundle of sense.
In my head, that is. And we don't really want to dwell on that for too long, do we?
Anybody who knows me already knows that since the 2nd 'C'-word I haven't been myself much. I go out even less now than I ever did - and that was hardly ever. I have become what is known around these parts as a bit of a recluse. A hermit. I am the Howard Hughes-in-training of Bedford (walking about naked on uninterrupted streams of Andrex excluded - for the time being - and until we can source much thicker nets for the windows).
And a trip to the Hairdressers has never been Up There on my list of favouritest things in the world to do. In fact it's probably equal first with the Dentist if I'm to be frank - and currently I'd rather be Frank than Debs any time of the day or night thank you very much.
So imagine my dismay when I thought my Ladyshaver had run out of steam as I pulled a great wodge of hair out from underneath my arms, only to find it still attached to my head - the shock - the horror - the hideousness of having to find the wherewithal to even make an appointment at the Hairdressers! (Note: the hair being stuck under the pits is my SIGN that I need a trim. I will even walk with elongated arms rather like a Neanderthal for an extra week if it will earn me more time to put off making the hairdressing appointment. Oh, and I cut my own fringe. Badly, apparently. But then that could very well be tactical on Hairdresser's part).
I digress - but then you already know that.
Don't you HATE HAIRDRESSER-SPEAK almost as much as you hate Riddles and Clowns... and Dentists? I do.
'Haven't seen you since February - what've you been up to then?' I am asked pleasantly.
And for some reason I am compelled to NOT gloss over the past few months with an airy 'Oh you know, this and that...' - and I believe that reason has something to do with the list of "side effects" I noticed on the information leaflet inside my sleeping tablets. Along with the usual, "depression/difficulty sleeping (WTF?)" and "headaches/hand numbness" and "metallic taste/difficulty swallowing" -, is "relaxed grip on reality" - which I always thought would be a positive thing. Not so during a trip to the hairdressers, apparently.
So I told her everything. About the 2nd crash and how it affected me and how anxious I'd become, how I virtually quake at any thought of having to travel anywhere at any time and how paranoid I'd become generally.
And she shut up.
There was a tiny query as to how badly I'd been hurt... to which I'd repeated (maybe menacingly, maybe not, it's difficult to tell what with this relaxed grip on reality that I have) that physically I'd just suffered the whiplashy thing, but that I'd been PSYCHOLOGICALLY damaged...
Which quelled the queries again.
To the extent that I even left the salon with still-wet hair, as she told me "Professionally" that she liked to leave curly hair on the damp side because it didn't drag down the natural bounce. Yeah right. What she actually meant was: " Jeez, I'm not getting involved with all this crazy-shite-psycho-wank, I'll give it a cursory trim, lasting all of ten minutes... maybe just snap the scissors a bit and not even touch the ends of her hair... reduce her price by a tenner and she can blimmin' well drive back home looking like a frightened dog that got caught in a thunderstorm, trapped, trembling in a car and given a quick run-through of the Highway Code before feeling able to drive off...
If I'm lucky, she may even get home, burst into tears in front of her husband and vow never to have her hair cut again. By me, at any rate."
Which I did.