Another TikTok Numpty

I saw it on TikTok I shyly whispered to Tania, grateful that my mask hid my riddy as my cheeks were getting hotter by the millisecond. I could almost see the incredulousness emanating from Tania’s skin, making her burnt orange self-tanned hue a deeper shade of Trump.
 
"Hey Bernice we have another numpty", shouted Tania over one of her tie-dyed puff ball sleeved shoulders. "Another self-proclaimed ‘expert’ who has the audacity tae think that they ken better than the professionals because they watched a 3 minute clip of some rando butchering hair." "I studied for 6 months at an FE college to work here," announced Tania as if addressing a criminal court hearing, "I am a bona fide qualified pro," she proclaimed as she searched for validation from the blue-rinsed spectators. One of the naysaying curler brigade of voyeurs piped up that I must have been blootered or on the whacky baccy to do that to myself and helpfully added that they would have been pure greetin if it was them. But it wasn’t them, it was me, a wee dafty with a lethal combination of a pair of kitchen scissors, mis-placed confidence, ill-advised instructions and a £5 cerise box dye.
 
I heard the clickety clacking of their heels on the linoleum-clad floor before I saw Bernice approaching me with one of their humongous coloured in black brows raised at one side like the James Bond of slugs. "That’s right! the lassy is a pro" sniggered Bernice, "if you need proof just ask her sugar granddaddy Big Wullie fae Largs, he says that she has skills that any man would gladly exchange their brew money for". ""In the name of the wee man!" Bernice exclaimed in their outdoor voice "what were you thinking!" They then turned on their stilettos and marched away, muttering with veracity what an absolute eejit and total bampot I was.
 
I just sat there in the carfuffle, non-plussed, staring blankly at my reflection in the full length mirror as I protectively clutched my Roadman skip cap clammily with both of my hands. My hair was a bright concatenate of grey, brown and a vivid, uncompromising cerise cherry tone, which made for an eclectic, if not boggin', colour palette. I had imaginings of achieving a choppy, layered, textured look, but the reality of my plight shattered this vision as I looked more like a poor man’s Nicola Sturgeon after day drinking buckie at glasga green. I hated the hairdressers at the best of times; the sheer soul-destroying disappointment of arriving with dreams of a Rachel cut only to emerge sixty spoondoolies lighter looking like Isa from Still Game.
 
Alish, the quiet apprentice, is a welcome disturbance to my brooding as she approaches me with a broom in one hand and a welcome cup of milky tea in the other. Before Alish skedaddles, she gives me a pitying smile and says in a hushed voice, "I put hunners of sugar in your milky brew, as you look scunnert and ready tae go oot yer nut and go pure radge at those two dafties". For one so young and seemingly inexperienced in that moment I regarded Alish as sage and I thanked her for her kindness to which she simply replied "nae bother hun, dinnae fash yersel, were all Jock Tamson’s bairns"
 
Tania returns with a dye mix and says to Alish, "I thought yer paws' name was Hamish nae Jock." Alish smirks and, without a word, follows her broom to the other side of the salon. After 40 minutes, my hair had been dyed back to brown, with no sign of my alter ego, the silver fox, and my shaggy mullet cut was replaced with a smooth, short, conservative bob that would make any Karen proud.
 
I look up when the bell above the saloon door makes an announcement, ding dong, to see a Greta Garbo-like character with sunglasses and a huge brimmed hat trying to sneak incognito through the door. I hear Tania’s familiar voice echoing above the noise of the blow driers, "Hey Bernice, we have another numpty"……..