Personal Development in the Elevator

To the Grove shopping centre where my hairdresser, Ian resides on the second floor I went yesterday afternoon. 

Ian is the sort of queer who types “xxx” (kiss kiss) after all text messages no matter who he sends them to. I adore him and his touching stories of Trooper his epileptic dog and his intense swearing habit.

If there is a sliding scale of gay to straight, he is the gay marker at that end of the scale, the one the rest are measured by.

We were discussing training regimens. He goes to the gym with his trainer (“I chose him because I am not attracted to him” says Ian) and I run alone. 

We talk about toughness and he squeals “My love, I grew up in Rockingham with this voice, don’t you talk to me about tough!” Rockingham is a tough place to grow up when you're a raging queen.

As I arrive at the centre I realise how stiff my grazed knees are from crashing down a stone step in the dark earlier that day while out running (damn daylight savings; give me honest darkness not this fake rubbish).

So I ride the lift up to the second floor. One of the pretty young students from the beauty academy is in the lift with me and, feeling a need to make polite small talk in the 15 seconds it takes to get to the second floor, says “so I guess you’re on your way to see Ian the hairdresser?”

 “Yes, actually I am” I reply, smiling.

There is a brief pause during which time I realise that I could just as easily have been going to the second floor to the bridal shop, the gym, the two dollar shop, the podiatrist, or (I would have thought most obviously) Kathmandu, the outdoor adventure shop.

“Does my hair look that bad then?” I ask her in a mild panic.

“Oh no its not that,” she replies meekly.

And we arrive at the second floor and go our separate ways. 

THEN WHAT??? What made it so clear that I was off to the hairdresser and not to stock up on adventuring essentials from Kathmandu??