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OVERSHARING

There is an illusory sense of being in the Cone Of Silence when you are sitting in the hairdresser's chair which has lead me to unburden myself in the most embarrassing manner.  Last Thursday, ensconced as I was in this comfortable way I was much more forthcoming than she or I expected when she routinely asked  me how I was.  After expounding at length and in excruciating detail on the topic of every mood swing, bodily function and general sense of decrepitude that I have been experiencing recently she gamely played her part in this one sided conversation and asked me my age.  While I answered her a cloud of brain fog washed over me and I said 49.  She was quick to say, "Oh, you don't look 49!"   

I felt quite buoyant as I left the salon with these words ringing in my ears and feeling like a model in a Pantene advertisement; bouncy, shiny waves of hair now unstreaked by gray.  It was only much later that I realised that there is a reason I don't look 49 and it's because I am 48! Given that she now has a deep and profound (albeit unwanted) understanding of my inner workings I would prefer to never face her again. However, my next appointment cannot come around soon enough so that I can set her straight on how old I really am.