One of my little, silent tests is the dishwasher stack. It's an indication of intelligence, of cleverness, how astute one is, how logical, organised, together you are.
It is a microcosm of the planet, the world where things have a natural order, a pattern. There is a place for everything and everything has a place. If you can't stack a dishwasher it is an indication of how you are going to tackle things outside.
It is one of those simple tasks that can go so horribly wrong, right from the start sometimes. If you don't follow the natural order, it can lead to chaos. So quickly.
You'd be amazed how many people can't stack a dishwasher.
But then again, maybe you wouldn't. There are, after all, a lot of stupid people in the world.
These were the thoughts that were going through my mind this morning as I gazed down at the dishwasher in despair. Oh, I guess it should serve me right, such thoughts.
I was finishing my coffee and was about to leave for the city to do some training that I had arranged for myself in my new head office for the day. I was just drinking down the last drops of rich, aromatic coffee.
Ring, ring, ring, sounds my phone.
"Hello."
"Oh Christian?" It was my new boss, Hayley. "I'm sorry, but they are doing some sort of testing in the training rooms all day, so, sorry, today is not possible."
Oh good, lovely. Great. "Oh, that's a shame."
"Sorry, you haven't left home yet, have you?"
"No, I was just about to."
"Oh good."
Oh good? Oh good? Oh good? What's good about it? Dam! I so wanted to do that training, get into it, at least feel like I was doing something. At least feel like I was moving forward. Oh well.
Hayley is a particularly humourless Y gen type who takes everything terribly, terribly seriously. You know the type, a misery with an arts degree. Oh, maybe she is new, maybe she is just starting out, maybe she has just graduated and this is her first job, and she is scared and nervous just like the rest of us, oh maybe? I don't know really.
Last week, when I was walking home from having lunch with Sam, I looked up and there was Hayley walking towards me, with the usual dour expression on her face. She was eating a sandwich, no doubt grabbed between busy appointments. I opened my mouth to say hello, just in case, despite the her not looking at me, when she tripped and came flying towards me, hands and feet flailing, as though she had stepped on marbles rolled out on the ground. I almost expected a cartoon'esque drum roll to accompany her. She didn't she me as she flew passed, all her attention taken up with staying up right.
Well, there you go I thought. You should have seen the sudden startled expression on her face, the most expressive that I'd ever seen her. How funny. I did chuckle as I continued towards Queen Street.
So, I was dressed and ready to go this morning, apparently with nowhere to go. So, I decided to head out the door and have that long overdue haircut.
My hairdresser, Abdul, has been away. I think I told you that fat boy has been filling in, Branco. Cute, in a fat-boy kind of Polish/Hungarian way. But Abdul was back today. He told me how it was hard to continue working 6 days a week with a new partner. Remember, he went back to Iraq to find her. And he did. He’s been very pleased with himself ever since.
He said remind me how you have your hair?
So, I said, “A number 2 on the sides, a number 3 on the top. Shorter on the sides, longer on the top. You know, something like that.”
Well, he clearly didn't really remember and he picked up the clippers attached a comb and pushed the clippers right through the top of my head. "Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz."
He must have missed my sharp intake of breath, as he continued without hesitation. I kept talking, so did he. No beats were missed.
I should have said something, I guess, but what is there left to say when a huge stripe of hair has been removed from the centre of your scalp. "OH NO! Not that short?"
Of course, it was my fault, stupid me. I mentioned the clippers and combs sizes putting it into his head.
However, he has, essentially, shaved my head. So, there you go I thought. Lovely.
I haven’t had my hair this short for years. Don’t worry, you will, of course, get used to it, I told myself. But, every time I have caught sight of my reflection since, I have jumped. “Oh!” (But, you know, the good thing about hair…)
So, what else was there to do? I came home and put on an old Bette Davis movie and made a cup of tea. You know, as you do.
I keep thinking it will look okay, that I will get used to it. But it doesn't and I haven't. There is still that same sharp intake of breath when I catch sight of my reflection.
I watched Bette Davis movies all afternoon, you know, as you do. I wrote up old entries in my blog, you know, like I am the least bit concerned about my future. Well, I guess, these are the last days of my time off. Well, that is what I think, rightly or wrongly.
To tell you the truth I am a bit bored now with, essentially, doing nothing. My writing hasn’t, exactly, gone full stream ahead during my time off. I haven’t, exactly, mastered the changeover to writer. And, sadly, if I haven’t managed to do that, then, really, I should go back to boring old office work. I think I may have just missed a golden opportunity. Stupid me.
I walked into town and met Sam after work, latish. It was a lovely day, the sun shone down as I made my way into the city. We met up in Bourke Street just as we both got to Exhibition Street. It was a busy Friday evening at the cafes all along that now popular eating strip.
The crowds parted on the footpath in front of me, and Sam greeted me with big eyes. “You should never have your hair cut like that again. You look like you have just come out of the army.”
I’d like to say that I’d almost forgotten about my bad hair by then, but I hadn’t. “I was hoping you’d say something nice about it.”
“We could perhaps take you in for some implants, or at the very least emergency hair colour.”
“Really?” Sad Face. “You don’t like it?”
Laugh. “No.”
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