Grenade

“Don’t forget to take the fourteen-year-old to the hairdressers”, says the mum, as she leaves.

“I won’t”, I reassure her.

She spins around and regards my hair curiously.

“You could get something done too, if you like, just put it on our account.”

“Thanks.”

I look in the mirror. It could do with trimming, smartening up. The fourteen-year-old bounds down the stairs.

“Stop looking in the mirror. You are always looking in the mirror”, she observes.

“I might get a haircut, too. What do you think?”

“I think you’re vain. Let’s go.”

We make our way to the hairdressers.

“What would you like done today, Sir?” asks the fat blonde woman hovering over me.

“I’m not sure. Just a trim, I think.”

She closes her eyes and begins fondling my hair, like it’s brail.

“Textured crop?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Graduation on the sides, take some weight off the top?”

“I don’t know what that means either.”

“We could keep the weight on top, depends how you want it to sit.”

“Ummm-”

“How do you normally wear it?”

“Just like this.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Like, how it is now?”

“Yes!”

She raises an eye-brow and begins cutting.

“How’s that?” she asks, when she is done, circling me with a mirror.

“Good, thanks”, I nod.

“Would you like some product?”

“Sorry?”

“Would you like some product?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She dollops some guff onto my hair and starts sculpting.

The fourteen-year-old and I make our way back to the mansion.

“Your hair looks nice”, I say.

“Thanks.”

“What do you think of mine?”

She regards it curiously.

“You think you’re Bruno Mars. You’re not Bruno Mars.”

The Male Nanny