Him vs Hair

If you're wondering, Scary Mary did beat Sick Vicky last Friday. With a record crowd of 26, Steve's girlfriend ripped apart her opponent, her real name Victoria Sanders, she works in a care home part-time. It was a hardcore match, as I said. And when they said hardcore, they meant hardcore. I mean, I've seen those kind of matches on those awful cable channels on late night TV, and it's relatively gory. But close up, in the local town hall, it's really, really gory. And entertaining.

 Steve was proud, looking at me every couple of seconds beside me in his folding chair, smiling like a father at his son's football game. We even got to go backstage (the stockroom of the town hall) and meet a few performers. Sick Vicky was a lovely girl. She told me all about her care home and how the pensioners she takes care of don't know about what she does at night. 

'I'm not sure they'd look at me in the same way.' She shook her head. 'A bit like saying I'm a prostitute.'

Hmm, I'm not sure prostitutes end the night covered in blood, sweat and broken ribs. If they do, they're not doing it right. 

I wasn't supposed to be there that night, sat on the front row, glaring up at a badly made wrestling ring. I was supposed to be at Alex and Fran's flat warming for a good party. It was Fran's fault.

'How was I supposed to know you were going with him?'

You can tell when Fran doesn't like someone, she doesn't use their name, for fear of throwing up.

'You didn't give me an address' I protested.

'I thought you knew were we lived. Anyway, I'm sorry. I just didn't want him coming. He's a bad influence on Alex.'

Fran talks about Alex likes she's his mother, or carer. I don't say anything about it, obviously. Sometimes he needs someone like that. And I suppose Steve is a bad influence on Alex. He was the one who told him how to get a free Fanta out of the vending machine in the canteen.

'Was it a good night?'

'Yeah, we had fun. What's with your hair, Dylan?'

This happens every time I have a haircut. I want people to notice but I don't want people to notice. Two very conflicting feelings. People point at you and stick their bottom lip out, searching for a meaning to the difference they're seeing in you. But there was a big difference in me today. Yesterday I went to a gentleman's hairdressers called 'Squires'. Usually I have a standard chop at the local salon every six months or so, with no real style or effort, mainly due to cost. But after my bad date with Sofia, I thought maybe it was the right time to have a bit of a change. I went for the stylish, fashionable, down-with-the-kids hairdo. Short on top with a bit of a fringe, and long sideburns down the side. The trouble was, I have quite a chubby face. Which meant that my stylish, fashionable, down-with-the-kids hairdo made me look a bit... well....girly.

'Why? What?'

'It's a big different, isn't it?'

That's the biggest insult. Forget all the swear words and offensive names you can think of, just call someone different and they can get the authorities involved.

'I thought I'd go for something different.' I said, fingering my hair. 'Do you like it?'

Not a good question to ask someone who you know doesn't like something. She just nodded and called it different again. 

I walked outside onto the car park. Today I had been working with Mary, asking her questions about the wrestling business she worked in. It was fascinating. Using blades to cut foreheads until they bleed, rehearsed arguments and choreographed fighting, and that's just in the dressing rooms! 

'So, are you and Sick Vicky good mates, then?' I asked, pushing up a row of trolley's next to her.

'Oh yeah, we went out for a drink last night. Won the pub quiz.'

Wow, two wrestlers winning a pub quiz. Maybe they just threatened the landlord with a chair and ran off with the prize. I don't know, they can do anything. We crossed the pelican crossing and pushed the trolley's into the bay, side by side. A lady walked behind us and smiled, holding out her hand to get a trolley. She was around forty, wearing a long dark coat and hat, almost like a French beret, but made out of cotton. I gave her a trolley and smiled back.

'Thank you.' 

'No worries.'

'Can I just say, I think it's great how they have woman working out her.' She grinned proudly. 'It's always considered a man's job.'

Mary can fight like a man. Probably better than a man. It was nice to see someone appreciate her presence on the car park as much as I did in the wrestling ring. Mary smiled at her as if to say thank you. But then shifted her eyes onto me and her smile withered into embarrassment. She wasn't embarrassed by herself, she was embarrassed for me. 

I'm not going to Squires again.