Feathered-mullet board shorts MUST be better

Boyos, take it from me. Chicks fear a few things in life. Finding a new hairdresser and purchasing new togs are two of them. For some reason, I chose to do both of these things to myself within the space of two days.

Let’s just say that if you see some dizzy cow wearing a hat and eating a crapload of lettuce, that would probably be me. Hurrah for fat arses and lousy haircuts, eh?

The new togs were yesterday’s horror. I haven’t had bathers for quite some time. A couple of years ago, I was stupid enough to purchase a bikini. Ask me not the reason why, mine is but to do and fry. I wore The Bikini twice and felt an utter twat both times, so the last time I was collecting up clothes for the Goodwill, the barely-worn twatkini was the first item in the bag. I hope someone with less of a bargearse than I have is wearing it and feeling happy with herself right now.

I should probably point out that while Bloke and I live roughly 90 seconds from the beach, I don’t swim. I have a small blind spot when it comes to water. OK, fine, call it a Marlon-Brando-sized phobia. That’s fine. I can deal. But whatever the case, I do not swim and I do not put my face in water. Period. However, in a coupla weeks, I’m getting’ on a jet plane. Bloke said, “They have a pool here. You need bathers.” There was a lot of whining and growling on my part, but yesterday I did my duty and went looking for bathers.

Oh, farrrrk.

Apparently, most bathers are itty-bitty triangles made of old ice-cream wrappers, nylon strings and hibiscus flowers. Pfft, who knew? The ones that weren’t made from tropical-flavoured Calipo papers and thread were all size 28 and made of tent-lengths of ruching and tucking. For the love of Ford, is there nothing in between? Why must all bathers be pink, orange and brown beer coasters held together with dental floss, or a floral couch cover? Whyyyy?!

Shopping for swimwear is soul-destroying. You have to spend a lot of time looking at all your jubbly bits in a very brightly-lit mirror. I would be far happier in a 1920s neck-to-knee cossie. Or a burqha. Hurrah for the burqha! Dateline or some such program showed some Muslim girls swimming at the beach and, all religious allegiances aside (especially since I'm an atheist and have none) I would very much be in for the beach sheet. Can I please, please have a beach burqha? Please?

I spent a good hour and a half hunting through various racks of swimwear. Needless to say, I had little joy. Finally, after much searching among floss and discarded ice-cream skins, I found a pair of black boy-leg shorts and a black-and-white halter top that covered most of my jubbly bits. Actually, it looked like something Paris Hilton would wear to a nightclub, but about 12 sizes larger. They were acceptable – quite cute, even – but before I can wear them, I must lose the equivalent of a Brady-sized bucket of K’fuck off my arse.

At least I HAVE the damned bathers. I can starve myself over the next fortnight, right?
Eating nothing but cucumber and parsley will be fun.

But I had barely recovered from the trauma of looking for togs when it was haircut time. (Rocking, drooling, whiny-noises etc.) My old hairdresser was a lovely bloke. Actually, he still is a lovely bloke. The only problem is that he sold his salon so he could sell home loans instead of haircuts. More importantly, he sold his salon to a chick who painted the whole fucking place hot pink, turned it into a “style lounge” and hung dippy chandeliers in the windows.

I cannot walk into this place without feeling like a girly idiot. I am so girly.

I coped for a few months, since Old Owner came in on Saturday mornings. The final straw came on the day when I went in to see Old Owner and had my hair washed by a 12-year-old Paris-clone. It was Wrong.

Me: “So, are you Girly-Pink-Dimwit's sister?”
Scrawny Hair Washer: “Everyone asks me that! No, I’m not. I totally wish I was, though! That would be, like, so hot!”
Me: “Er, that’s “I totally wish I were”, not “I totally wish I was”. So, why are you washing my hair?”
HW: “I totally want to be a hairdresser when I finish school! That would be so, like, totally hot!”
Me: “Erm, hm, plenty of time for that sort of thing, eh, yeah? Since you’re 12, yeah? You know, I did actually wash my hair before I arrived here… (Please! Please! Stop massaging my scalp! You’re 12! It feels like child exploitation!)”

However, I’m nothing if not a lazy cow so I put off finding another haircutter. I’ve let myself go for a few weeks. In fact, until this morning, my hair looked like an otter that had had sex with a coir doormat. Rough sex.

Sigh. Would that I still looked like an untrimmed doormat/otter hybrid.

Since I couldn’t get a haircut with Old Owner, I decided to try Place Across The Road. Mistake. Bi-i-i-g-g mistake.

I ended up with Rhianna (Who the hell is called Rhianna? I mean, really?! Rhiannon is bad enough, but Rhianna? That’s so SBG that it’s not funny!). Needless to say, Rhianna was wearing a dress and leggings. She was also about 15 and weighed four stone. I took one look at her and thought, “Ooooh, this can’t be good.”

By the time Rhianna had finished with me, I looked like my hair had been cut with a broken beer bottle. Or possibly with a knife and fork. I even had to remove a few chunks over my left ear with the nail scissors, for Ford’s sake.

I guess all I need to have happen now is for my underwear drawer to catch fire. I just bought me some new dacks yesterday, so I guess that would be the final straw. Or the toilet to back up. Again. Come on, bring it on, bitches! I’m ready!

Edit: Actually, the pants haircut was the third crap thing to happen. I forgot that the tumble dryer already turned to putty, curse it. Hmmph. Now I'm going to have to get one of those Today Tonight-unapproved repairmen...