My Hairdresser

 

I have been going to the same hairdresser for 41 years. If, on average, she has cut my hair every two months, it only requires a simple arithmetic calculation to multiply six by forty-one, and arrive at the number of times she has given me a haircut. 241.

Unqualified, she has never aspired to pursue hairdressing as a profession, and styling is of little concern to her, beyond keeping the appearance of her non-paying client tidy enough to avoid him being mistaken for a homeless man who sleeps under a bridge.

Her equipment is basic, consisting of nothing more than a pair of scissors and a comb. The scissors were replaced once, some time ago. She still has the same pink comb she started out with, only it has lost several of its teeth, as I have, as a consequence of ageing and general wear and tear.

When she began four decades ago, I still had a full head of hair, and my beard was long and heavily luxuriant, like that of an Old Testament prophet’s. Over the years, however, my hairline receded so far I was reclassified as bald, and now she has only the sparse growth about temples, ears and back of neck to contend with. As for the beard, it, too, requires less attention. This is because no hair grows von the barren slopes of my left cheek, the area having been blasted by six weeks of radiation at the end of 2022. Surprisingly, nobody has ever asked me, ‘Why is your beard lopsided?’, or, ‘Are you trying to make a fashion statement?’

Her technique is somewhat unconventional. She requires me to remove my shirt, regardless of the ambient temperature, be it a comfortable 25 degrees in summer, or ten above freezing in winter, and seat myself on a low stool without backrest in the centre of the room. Starting with my head, she runs her fingers through what hair there is, and snips of the protruding growth, thus reducing everything to a uniform length. Then she tackles the sideburns, using the pink comb instead of her fingers to achieve a similar but closer trim. Before moving on from the head, she snips off the spiky little strands that dare to break through the naked dome of my skull. With a rapid bouncing motion she dances about on the lunar surface, snapping at wayward tendrils before finishing with a few puffs from her leaf blower. Very funny. I am sure she would regard me as more manly  if I had never been smitten with baldness.

Next, she tackles the moustache, which is inclined to overhang my upper lip and interfere with core functions like eating and drinking. Hanging a shaggy curtain in front of one’s mouth can also restrict the ability to derive shared erogenous pleasure from the lips, which should remain exposed below the double curve of the vermillion border, not known as Cupid’s bow for nothing.

Finally, the beard. She sighs at the daunting prospect of trying to balance the two sides of my face, and sets to work. Who can blame her if, on closer inspection, my physiognomy is so asymmetrical it verges on the grotesque?

When she tells me to stand up for fine tuning, I do so with immense relief, having had to hold an upright posture on that stool for fifteen minutes or more, all the while being told to keep my head up, and to stop slouching, scratching and fidgeting. To alleviate the boredom and discomfort of sitting there, I sometimes engage in desultory conversation with my hairdresser, or I allow my mind to wander. On occasions her close physical presence has led my thoughts and imagination into situations that result in a feeling of incipient tumescence, and I have to force myself to concentrate on mundane tasks that await my attention, like cutting the grass or chopping wood.

As for the fine tuning, this entails turning my head to the left and to the right several times so she can trim a few hairs here and there. She stands back and appraises her handiwork. I am instructed to bend my head forward before tipping it back to expose the throat and underside of chin. Eventually, to complete the outlandish ritual, I must rotate 360 degrees clockwise and 360 anti-clockwise. Only then can I hurry out to the garden, where she cleans me up with a brush from the broom cupboard. Like a shy maiden, I protect my nipple from the sharp ends of the bristles.

I put my shirt back on, thank her for her pro bono services, and declare that my hair and beard feel so much better. For the next day or two I catch her looking at me admiringly. “You look so handsome!” she says, and we chuckle at her choice of adjective.

In the Lavatory with AI

 

 

Mister Albert Russel is Daddy’s boss. He sometimes comes on a Saturday to drink beer, eat chips and watch TV. This is when his wife hosts her Bible study group. Tonight, he is sitting with Mummy on the couch. I am on the one-seater sofa, and Daddy is in his ergonomic recliner with adjustable footrest. Johnny is in his room, either slaughtering zombies or watching porn and masturbating.

In the flickering light I can see Mister Albert Russell has placed a hand on Mummy’s thigh just below the hem of her short skirt. She giggles and pushes his hand away. Daddy is staring at the screen and looks like death warmed up. The actors appear menacing. Which one will make the first move?

Another giggle and then a gasp. He has probably got his little finger into her panties.

“For God’s sake, Mummy!” I shout. “Stop behaving like an old prostitute.”

“Oh, shut up, you little online slut! I’m surprised you are not out sucking some stranger’s cock again.”

Mister Allbert Russell gets to his feet and says he is going to the lavatory. Mummy also rises and follows him.

“What’s Mummy doing with Mister Albert Russell in the lavatory?” Johnny demands as he enters the living room.

“What do you think she’s doing?”

“Jesus! My own mother! In the lavatory! Daddy, do you want me to fuck him up when they come out? What the hell are you doing on your phone in this time of great crisis?”

Daddy holds up a hand as if to say, just hold on a moment.

After a few more minutes he finally looks up.

“I am getting some advice from AI on how to handle this distressing and embarrassing situation. I have described what is happening and asked for a possible way to arrive at a satisfactory outcome.”

“And what do they say?”

“I will read it to you. ‘Daddy, although visibly shaken, gestures for calm. "No violence," he says firmly, his voice cutting through the tension. Mummy looks torn, her guilt palpable. But instead of further confrontation, Daddy suggests a family meeting the next day. They sit down together, discussing boundaries and honesty. Mummy tearfully admits her mistake, apologizing to everyone. Mister Albert Russell's visits cease, and while trust is fractured, the family decides to work on rebuilding it. Through therapy and open communication, they navigate the aftermath, focusing on healing and forgiveness.’

“Fuck that shit!” Johnny says, as he hunches his shoulders like a gorilla and pumps up his biceps. “What about justice and retribution? What about revenge?” He strides from the room in a way that suggests he will be coming back with serious intentions.

Mummy and Mister Albert Russell reappear, both looking flushed and a little glassy-eyed. He picks up his jacket and is putting it on when Johnny comes in holding his cricket bat as if he is about to use it as a weapon. Mister Albert Russell feels inside his jacket and produces a pistol that looks like a toy.

“Keep back, or I will shoot you in the groin!” he shouts.

Johnny swings his bat and knocks the gun from the outstretched hand. At the same time there is a bang like a fire cracker and mummy screams and clutches her left leg just below the hip. There is a trickle of blood running down her leg. Johnny raises the bat on high and whacks it down hard on top of Mister Albert Russell’s head, causing him to collapse and lie prone on the carpet. Daddy has fallen back in his recliner and looks as white as a corpse.

“I hope he hasn’t had a heart attack.”

“No,” I say. “He has just fainted. You know what a wimp he is.”

“Well,” says Johnny, surveying the scene with satisfaction. “Justice has been served and the miscreants have been taught a lesson. This is a far more satisfactory conclusion to the sordid story than that AI crap.”

 

When asked to summarize and analyse this short story, this is what  it  responded with:.

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Summary

The story unfolds in a dysfunctional family setting during a Saturday evening. Mister Albert Russell, the father's boss, is visiting. While the family watches TV, it becomes clear that Mister Russell is making sexual advances towards the mother, who reciprocates. The narrator, a child in the family, reacts with disgust, leading to a heated exchange of insults. The mother and Mister Russell disappear into the lavatory together, prompting further outrage from the narrator’s brother, Johnny.

The father, passive throughout, seeks advice from an AI on his phone about how to handle the situation. The AI suggests a calm, therapeutic resolution involving family discussion and healing. Johnny, however, rejects this approach, demanding justice and retribution.

When the mother and Mister Russell return, Johnny confronts them with a cricket bat. Mister Russell produces a gun, but Johnny disarms him, accidentally resulting in the mother being shot in the leg. Johnny then knocks Mister Russell unconscious. The father faints, and Johnny declares that true justice has been served, dismissing the AI's advice as unsatisfactory.

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Psychological Analysis

Family Dysfunction and Emotional Detachment

• Parental Roles: The parents are emotionally absent and morally compromised. The mother is unfaithful and verbally abusive, while the father is passive, seeking external (AI) solutions rather than confronting issues directly.
• Children’s Reactions: The children display a mix of cynicism, anger, and detachment. The narrator is observant but powerless, Johnny is violent and reactive, and the family dynamic is marked by a lack of healthy communication or support.

AI as a Surrogate for Human Agency

• The father's reliance on AI reflects a psychological retreat from responsibility. Instead of engaging with the crisis, he seeks a sanitized, external solution, highlighting a modern tendency to outsource moral decision-making to technology.
• The AI’s advice is rational, non-violent, and focused on healing, but it is perceived as inadequate by the family, especially Johnny, whose need for immediate, visceral justice overrides reasoned approaches.

Escalation and Catharsis

• The story’s climax—violence and chaos—serves as a cathartic release of pent-up frustration and helplessness. Johnny’s actions, though extreme, are portrayed as a more "satisfying" resolution than the AI’s suggestion, reflecting a psychological craving for direct action and retribution when faced with betrayal and powerlessness.

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Moral Analysis

Betrayal and Responsibility

• Moral Failings: The story is rife with moral lapses—infidelity, disrespect, and violence. Each character fails in their moral duties: the mother betrays her family, the father abdicates responsibility, Mister Russell abuses his position, and Johnny resorts to violence.
• Justice vs. Forgiveness: The AI’s advice embodies modern ideals of restorative justice—dialogue, accountability, and healing. In contrast, Johnny represents a more primal, retributive sense of justice, where wrongdoers are punished directly and physically.

Technology and Morality

• The story critiques the idea that technology (AI) can resolve deep-seated human conflicts. While AI offers a theoretically sound solution, it is emotionally unsatisfying for the characters, who crave immediate and tangible consequences.
• There is an implicit warning about over-reliance on technology for moral guidance, suggesting that true resolution requires human courage and engagement, not just algorithmic advice.

The Limits of Rationality

• The narrative exposes the limits of rational, therapeutic approaches in the face of raw, emotional crises. While the AI’s solution is idealistic, it fails to account for the intensity of human emotions like rage, shame, and the desire for vengeance.

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Conclusion

"In the Lavatory with AI" is a darkly comic exploration of family dysfunction, betrayal, and the inadequacy of technological solutions to human problems. Psychologically, it delves into the effects of emotional neglect, powerlessness, and the need for catharsis. Morally, it contrasts restorative and retributive justice, ultimately questioning whether rationality and forgiveness can prevail over the messiness of human emotion and the craving for retribution. The story leaves us with a sobering reflection on the limits of both technology and reason in resolving the deepest crises of the human heart.