Tochts fae Tushie Truncherfaece
My first haircut
Niver agaen. My first veesit tae a hairdressers has been a disaster. A’ll be wearin a toorie for weeks. A’m ey been dat prood o my tick head o hair. A trow widna be a trow athoot a guid head o hair. Whit wis I tinkin?
Meenie’s shergs wore me doon. She wis clean mad for me tae git my hair clippit. “Hit wid tak centuries aff dee”, she telt me. “Aa yon feetiks hingin aboot dy faece is aald fashioned. Whit trowie wife has an interest in a trow wi a head foo o flechs an dried tattie soup in his beard? Can du no try an look kirsen?”
I hed nae option. I couldna imagine life athoot Meenie. Hit wis joost my hair she wantit changed, no me. So a trip tae da hairdressers laekly wisna ower muckle tae ax. So I set aff wi twartree trowie shillin in my pooch, for an experience A’ll niver forgit.
Da hairdresser wis a perskeet laek peerie trow. Her hair wis streakit yallow an wis sprootin fae da croon o her head laek dockens. Her faece wis clertit wi maak-up an her claas wir pentit bricht pink. She wis teeterin aboot in a pair o high heeled buits.
As I set me doon she wappit a tooel aboot my shooders an stood ower da height o me wi a pair o shears in her claa.
“Whit can we dae wi dis head o hair?” she axed, lookin fairt tae geng near it. She took a comb an tried tae draa hit trowe my locks.
“Does du condeetion, Mr. Truncherfaece?” she axed.
“Na, I dunna shampoo idder. I tink da flechs do a guid enoch job o keepin my hair clean,” I said.
She snirled her nose an took a step back.
“We’ll mebbe niver leet wi dis peerie shears. A’ll git my sheep shears,” she said dartin back ower.
“Dis is mair laek it,” she said, brandishin her muckle sheep shears ower me. I slid doon in da shair. “Sit up!” she instructed. “We’ll hae dis owersteer head sortit in nae time ava.”
So she clippit. An shappit. Muckle dads o hair fell tae da grund. I even noticed twartree peerie flechs as dey jamp fairt fae da shears. She teckled da feetiks aboot my faece an even my beard.
“Dis is some head o hair,” she said wiping da sweat fae her broo. “A’m niver seen da laek, hit’s as coorse as da mane o a Shetlan pony.”
Eventually she led doon her sheep shears an pluggit in her clippers. As she wheekit even mair hair aff da back o my neck, I lookit in da mirror. I could hardly recognise mesel. Hit wis da sam muckle nose, een, pointy teeth an lirkit broo; but no me athoot my head o hair. Da wan trowie feature you could see better wis my pointit lugs; but noo dey felt braaly caald.
“A’m n-no sure aboot d-dis . . . ” I stuttered.
“A grain o gel an hit’ll look splendid”, she said, yokkin da tooel fae around my shooders.
“Is da fringe no skave?” I axed trivvellin a claa trowe whit little I hed left.
“Hit’s supposed tae be laek yon. Du wantit tae be modern, didn du?” she said, lookin braaly tirn. She cletched gel trowe her claas an intae my hair. Hit wis far waar as ony flechs or tattie soup, joost a sticky aggle.
“Wid du laek tae book anidder appointment?” she axed cheerily.
“No,” I said. She lookit tirn agaen. “A’ll h-haad on an see hoo fast dis growes,” I stuttered. I couldna git awa quick enoch.
When I got hame, Meenie wis delighted. “Oh, Tushie,” she swooned. “Du does look da handsome. I telt dee a haircut wid tak centuries aff dee.”
“A’m no sae sure,” I said, rubbin da back o my exposed neck. “Hit’s braaly caald an A’m no really wint wi dis gel. Hit’s joost a sticky cletch dat gadders aa kinds o bruck. See!” I said, pooin a laef fae my skave fringe.
“Du’s laekly da sam Tushie whitiver dee hair is laek,” smeeged Meenie.
I haaled my toorie on, richt doon ower my lugs.
“Weel, I hoop du laeks a trow wi a toorie”, I telt her. “A’ll be wearin dis een for maist o da winter.”
Hoop you hae better luck gittin your hair clippit,
Tushie Truncherfaece xxx
