The hairdresser was giving me the monthly shear. I'm cursed by thick, fast growing hair (same as First-Born, although she's blonde at the moment. I'm not) which means I either opt for the whole hippy thing or go short. At the moment, I'm still enjoying the novelty of short hair.
"What hairwashing product do you use?" she enquired
I gave her the name of the industrial-strength detergent in which I douse my head every morning.
She stepped back in horror: "Thats awful stuff!" she exclaimed, "No, you need to get some Vosene, maybe some Timotei, certainly some conditioner..." and then proceeded to list a dozen hair-related products without drawing breath.
"But, but, but," I protested feebly, "I'm a bloke. One bottle of shampoo is all blokes are supposed to have. A variety might indicate that I'm, you know, maybe not interested in girls..."
"Nonsense!" she said, "If a lady has got as far as using your shower, then she'll probably already be wise to your, ahem, orientation..."
The town council could have used to heat from my blushing face to melt the ice from the roads.