The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones

Dear Diary. Today I went to the hairdresser. She's a woman called Cel. I've been going to her to get my hair cut since my first hair transplant, 4 years ago. She's a 30-something brunette woman with a big fringe. Extrovert personality, bright eyes.

"So what are we doing today?" she said.

"Something shorter," I said.

She laughed. "Well, I can't make it longer."

"Do whatever you think is best."

I've learned not to give my own opinion to hairdressers. There are many things I don't know and one of these is how to make my thinning hair look good. I once went to a hairdresser and asked her to leave it long on the top but cut it short on the sides, a style that earned me the nickname "Tintin" among my friends due to the resulting giant fringe that stood up from my head like an antenna.

As Cel cut my hair, she explained she's doing a master's degree, which fucking hell, is quite impressive. I thought hairdressers were dumb but it goes to show that you cannot underestimate people. She said it's an online course at Sevilla University about hair disorders. She showed me the course book and it was about a hundred pages long.

Then she was complaining about the recent influx of new hair salons opening up. These are Chinese hairdressers who charge €6. Cel said she can't compete because she charges €18. I suspect they can charge so little because they don't spend half the time talking.

She gave my hair a wash and a blow dry.

"There, how does that look?"

I looked in the mirror. My hair looked better than when I walked in. I didn't look like David Hasselhoff but Cel had done her best with what she'd had. You can't polish a turd. (The turd being my hair.)

Though it did take her an hour, whereas it could have taken 20 minutes if she didn't talk so much.

If you go to Le Salon in Girona, tell Cel that Paul sent you.