Given Andy Parson’s hairstyle (or lack thereof), it was somewhat amusing that we first met properly through a hairdresser. We had, of course, crossed paths for real before. This was on the day that we shared a lane in the pool of the Virgin Active gym at the Omni Centre. However, unlike me, Andy had no recollection of our watery meeting. He suggested that our previous encounter took place in Brighton. On this occasion I sat with him, surrounded by children, in a cafe, helping him fine-tune his script for his next Fringe performance. He was writing a new stand-up routine especially for kids.
How I had come to be in Andy’s company was a bit of a blur, but it all started with a trip to an unknown hairdresser on Elm Row. Normally I would have visited C for a trim, but it was a Monday, my usual salon was closed, and I was desperate. One thing for certain after this new experience was that I would not recommend Elm Row to anyone else for a haircut. Never before had I met such sulky staff, nor such peculiar hairdressing practice. Rather than following the convention of drying hair with a hair-dryer, clients were led into taxis and left to loop Leith Walk until all the water had evaporated from their heads. When I complained about this the salon boss muttered something about compensation and handed me a yellow post-it. The hand-written message in green ink indicated that I was entitled to a free drink at some unknown bar. I already knew that another client had been offered corporate hospitality at some major sporting event so I was singularly unimpressed. Just because he was a former star of Dunfermline Athletic should not have entitled him to special treatment.
Dreamaticus 