Why no hairdresser should ever commit a serious crime.

Right Off the bat let me say  that I really like hairdressers. If it weren’t for them my hair would not be radiating the interestingly radioactive shade of purple currently is.  Also the ones I’ve known are genuinely interesting and nice people. It doesn’t hurt that a few of them have also been serious crushes over the years. But let’s face it, they should really avoid committing serious criminal offences.

Yesterday I accompanied my partner in crime, and her eldest daughter to a hair care wholesalers. I should point out now that this particular daughter is a hairdresser, and in fact is my hairdresser, so in the interests of keeping my hair attached to my head let me just say she is brilliant at what she does. Actually you should all go to her business for your next hair-do. Right then that’s the shameless plug out-of-the-way. Anyway, We went wandering to a wholesalers because My Excellent Hairdresser (MEH) was running low on certain hair-care essentials. Don’t ask me what they are, what I know about hair care could be written on the back of a stamp, “Wash it now and then”. Also I needed some purple hair color to brighten my own radioactive locks.

At this point I must digress for a moment to speak to you about having interesting hair colours. In the last few years my hair has been pitch-black, a red never seen in nature, blue, and now a deep purple. So over the past few years I have learned something few people know. Those colours are a bitch to keep fresh. Seriously, even look slant-ways at a shower and they fade. Go walking in the rain with the intent of looking soulful/gothic, and you’re more likely to end up resembling a very tall, oddly coloured Smurf. On the other hand no-one will ever miss you in a crowd, and it does increase your “fuckability” quotient quite impressively (admittedly the latter is a personal opinion, but when I see a girl with interestingly coloured hair, that’s where my mind goes…). So it really is swings, and roundabouts.

Anyway, there we were in the wholesalers, buying hair-dye, really dark blue nail varnish, and stuff I didn’t recognise, but which I assume is used either as;

a: Sexual lubricant.

or

b: follicle torment.

We were just leaving, intent on returning MEH home, when something occurred to me. You can instantly recognise a hairdresser in any group of people. And conversely, in a group of hairdressers you can always recognise the one non-hairdresser. The hairdresser is the one with the insanely sharp, impossible to maintain hairstyle. Which despite being impossible to maintain, without a trained staff at your beck and call, she does, maintain it that is. This is obviously because, with a some exceptions, most hairdressers actually do have a trained staff at their beck and call. Which leads me to the following scenario.

Human beings are notoriously bad witnesses. You can have a brutal murder seen by a hundred people, and maybe one will be able to give a credible witness statement, or description of the suspect. But hang on…

“Officer she had bright blue hair, in the sharpest, most perfect pixie-cut.  Oh and she had full “going out” make up on at 2pm on a Wednesday afternoon.”

This the witnesses statement given after the notorious “Hairdresser’s scissors buried in his skull.” murder. Though in her defense it genuinely was an accidental death, his cologne was really bad, it made her sneeze, and when she jerked, WHAM! Scissors buried in his skull. Woops.

She still ended up serving a decade in Mountjoy though. A decade where she was known by the prison population as “Glove”. All because you can pick the one hairdresser out of any crowd.

It occurs that this could also be true of the hairdressers mother, sisters, nieces, grandmothers, aunts, and closer friends. But hey it still really narrows the field of suspects from everyone, to just a few.

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