A woman aged 35-50 dressed as Michelle Bridges or one of her contests on The Biggest Loser barges into the salon with her human trophy of fertility perched in a titanic sized jogging pram. Her life is now devoted to being a painfully neurotic mummy martyr. Her whole existence is consumed with her freshly baked legacy usually named something whimsical and pretentiously vomitus ie. Dandelion, Huxtaberger, Ajax or Arabica..

Mommy dearest: Oh!…umm.. Are you the lowly peasant honoured with cutting my anointed child today? What are your credentials exactly? Are you sure you’re even qualified!?…(SIGH) I must insist on interrogating you with every single strand of hair you touch or even contemplate looking at..

Hairdresser: Pardon me Madame,
You’re demonic spawn is hissing, writhing and screeching with such vigour a banshee would cover it’s bleeding ears.. If we continue on I’ll have to call in a young priest and an old priest.. If I may be so bold to suggest, do you think it best to reschedule, perhaps when Rosemary’s Baby is feeling a little less satanic?