Sand in my eyes.

I've always found the process of getting a hair-cut reasonably strange. I've never learned how to conduct myself within this temporary social environment.

First of all, in the waiting area which backs on to a huge window, I feel awkwardly on display to anyone I vaguely know who walks past. As if I'm embarrassed by the fact that I've personally acknowledged my need for a trim.

Secondly, once I've been sufficiently embarrassed by all the outsiders mocking my straggly noggin, I have to follow a stranger to the mini-shower where she sits me down gently only to then mash my cranium to-and-fro with the soothing dexterity of a wild boar.

Thirdly, I swear that hairdresser's never learned their measuring systems at school. There needs to be some sort of chart drawn up where 1 regular human inch equates to 3 hairdresser inches. Maybe I can cheat the system next time and ask for 0.84666... cm off.

Large swathes of sand.