Deep Inside
I must have had my “Grotesque Breast Deformity” badge on today, two completely separate people (each with a backup cohort) decided to extoll their stories of mammary madness to me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for breasts (usually feminine, but if men can just apply “perky” as an adjective to their moobs, who knows?) but knowing when your nipple went septic or that an old woman who comes in doesn’t wear a bra isn’t exactly my idea of acceptable consumer conversation.
Ordinarilly I’m a no-speaking consumer, I grab my goods, give a perfunctory “thanks” and depart without another word. So my shock when the caged till-jockey started her monologue on aged breasts was palpable. I suppose perhaps in the law of statistics, going to Tesco for ~3 years straight, I was bound to run into a breast related soliloquy, infinite monkies have nothing on these people. I’m questioning whether I would actually be more surprised if Shakespeare was the topic of the day.
The hairdressers was next in the day. I visit male-only hairdressers primarilly because they have a greater understanding of male conversation when getting their hair cut, namely nothing. Arguably this is what hairdressers usually spew forth, but today was an exception. I was in no mood to play my usual game of Bullshit (“Yes I’m going to Sweden tomorrow, I run a brothel there composed of teenage runaways…”) and in retrospect, I have no idea really how the conversation diverged to hairs on boobs. It perhaps started with removing hairs from in between your toes, not exactly pleasant but it’s one of the perils of being a hairdresser I guess; being a web developer I can certainly relate to having to remove hairs from my toes… From there, of course, where else could the conversation go? It moved to hair in nipples, then said hair going pathogenic, the hairdresser’s delightful trip to the doctor (a cute doctor no less) to have the offending folicle “lanced” out. By now my haircut had fortunately finished, I couldn’t hand over the money quickly enough.
