A haar.

I didn’t realise how warm I was getting today, walking around Inverness with a couple of layers and some headphones on, until I stepped into the hairdressers.

Hairdryers were being waggled around all over the shop and the sun came blasting through the great glass windows.

“I’ll be with you in a minute!” the receptionist told me.

“Cool”

I loosened my bag strap, trying to cool off. But it was to no avail; I felt the first bead of sweat drip off my sideburn. And I waited, and heated. Another drop. This wasn’t good.

One of the hairdressers came up to the desk, “can I help?”

“Yeah, um…” I hesitated. My mind was racing- I hope she doesn't see the sweat, I really hope she doesn’t see the sweat. Should I alert her to the thickness of my hair? My extra layers? Oh god, I can feel it. Just turn and leave, nobody knows you here. Just walk out and don’t look back. They probably see this everyday, right? God I bet she can see it, she’s probably thinking “Jesus wept, look at the state of this guy’s hair- unkempt and moist, my least favourite of all the combinations…” Maybe I can surreptitiously wipe my head on my collar, just wait till I agree with something and nod emphatically…

“…um, just wondering, if you had space?”

“Is quarter past twelve alright?”

“YEP!!”, I nodded.

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