Going Quietly Round the Bend on Tenerife

Posted: May 10, 2010 in Life, Tenerife, Uncategorized
Tags: , , , , ,

Lately I’ve come to the conclusion that as I get older, I’m becoming slightly nutty (If I had money, I could claim to be eccentric).

It’s a quite upsetting revelation as I’ve always considered myself to have a solid and mentally stable disposition; pretty much what you would expect from someone whose genes are made up from a Presbyterian mix of Glaswegian Iron foundrymen and highland ploughmen. You know where you are with stoic and dour.

Until now, I’ve left the fruit cake behaviour to a couple of mates (who are progressively becoming more nutty as they get older – so maybe it’s an age thing and my deteriorating mental health symptoms are just relative), but I think I’m catching them up.

I’ve always suffered from a touch of OCD (check the cooker’s turned off 5 times, and that the front door is locked 3 times before being able to walk away from the house etc), but who doesn’t?

That’s not what I’m talking about here. This is much worse. All week I’ve been on edge. I’ve been unable to completely relax; been that little bit grumpier and found fault with all sorts of things…all because of an impending visit to the hairdresser.

I hate it. For me it’s akin to a visit to the dentists and I’ll put it off for all sorts of reasons (they’re too busy, we’re too late and I’ve got other things to do, there’s a Y in the day). However when I get to the point when I look like Crusty the Clown from The Simpsons when I get out of bed in the morning and the look doesn’t get much better as the day progresses, I know deep down that it’s time to bite the bullet.

I managed to put it off for just over a week this time, with much sighing and rolling of the eyes from Andy every time I came up with a new excuse. But today my excuse bank was empty. So I had to put up with the trauma of the quarterly visit.

It’s not as though they’re not friendly, quite the opposite, but it’s the closest thing to a phobia I’ve got and having to conduct it all in Spanish doesn’t help the stress levels. At one point today when the girl had shaved the back and sides but left a thick moppy bit on top, I looked like an extra from The Name of the Rose.

But 15 minutes and a lot of ‘si,si, si, si, si’ s later the deed was done and I felt like the Old English Sheepdog I had when I was a lad after he’d been forcibly bathed – he would tear around the house, over the top of the sofa and along the walls like a ‘wall of death motorcycle rider’, wrecking everything in his path at the relief it was all over.

As I walked out of the hairdressers, Mr Grumpy Git was left on the floor with my increasingly more salt, less pepper hair and I felt at one with the world again.

As phobias go I don’t think it’s a particularly bad one but, as Andy has pointed out to me on numerous occasions over the last week, it is a stupid one.


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