Sunday, 19 February 2017

Brain damage...

Yesterday was marginally saner than our first day in Liverpool.  I have to put this down to the three sausages, two rashers of bacon and baked beans consumed at breakneck speed with a Pain au Raisin chaser. We didn't get down to breakfast till 11.00, which meant that I had eaten nothing for 24 hours, and it was only my delicate constitution which stopped me launching myself face first into the basket of croissants like a mad woman. 

So suitably fed, the husband and I headed back into the city.  I needed to get my hair done, as Mrs W and Mr G were on their way to us for a Big Night Out in The Cavern Club (spawning ground of the Beatles and various other ne'er-do-wells).

Believe it or not, it took almost an hour of walking around the city to find a hairdressers.  Bearing in mind how much time they spend on their eyebrows up here, you'd think that anything connected with hair would be prevalent.  Speaking of the eyebrows, since I mentioned them in passing to the husband on Thursday evening, he has become obsessed with them, going on about the 'fuzzy slugs' all weekend - anything like this always completely passes him by, and the Scouse Brow is something he can add to the things he's learned about this weekend. (One of which is not to allow me more than two mini bottles of Prosecco ever again).

So back to the hairdressers.  We finally find one, and the girl was able to offer me a blow dry immediately (this is never a good sign).  Drying my hair, she said something along the lines that my hair was getting damaged.  I agreed, saying that maybe it was time to go back to my natural curls and give the hairdryer some time off for good behaviour.  'It's probably your pillow that's doing it', she said.  'My pillow?' I questioned.  'Yes.  The sequins can play havoc with your hair and break it off''.  'Oh I haven't got any sequins on my pillow', I said, not realising what reaction this comment would get. 'No sequins! What, none at all?  Not even down the side?' She'd switched the dryer off at this point, such was her disbelief.  'No.  None at all'.  And then the killer question...

'Why?'

Well, I could have been honest with her and said that I didn't fancy waking up each morning looking like I'd shared the bed with Edward Scissorhands all night, or that having them digging into your cheek as you nodded off is not the most relaxing of sensations, but instead I opted for 'Well, I know they would damage my hair'.  To which she nodded sagely. (Hard to tell if she was actually nodding as my eyes were fixated on her eyebrows which had been applied with a roller brush into the shape of a couple of lambs' kidneys.

But it was an ok job, and it lasted through afternoon tea with the in-laws, and our visit to The Cavern.  I wasn't really too sure what to expect from this place, but one thing is for sure.  No one under the age of 50 should be allowed in there.  At least at that age you stand a chance of being around when this music was being played for the first time.  What attraction three men with a combined age of 217 have to a sixteen stone 22 year old 'hen' in a pink net tutu I have no idea.  We didn't stay too long - its been decades since I've been in a place where I have to prise my soles away from the floor with every step.  But at least I can now say that I've been.

Today, we're going to have another go at actually getting into the two cathedrals here.  Miss R implied that I was going to give penance for my alcohol-fuelled Friday afternoon.

I think I spent more than enough time on my knees in our bathroom on Friday night.

A lesson was learnt...


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