at the hairdressing salon

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I went to see the hairdresser last night. My usual salon was closed, so I popped into a new one in town, one with enormous steps and a basement, and plants in the window. It was a busy little salon, but the hairdresser took my pennies {£6, a bargain} and assured me that I was next. I wasn't next. As other people came in, they were next. She'd direct them to a chair and do their hair. She reassured me that I was next. Three hours later, when a large Turkish family came in, it became apparent to me that I would never be next in this particular place. I demanded my money back. The hairdresser huffed, puffed, told me I really would be next, but then relented and grudgingly returned my pennies to my outstretched hand. I don't often try to analyse my dreams, but this one is self-explanatory. In the staffroom yesterday we were chatting about my pain when visiting the hairdresser, with all that small-talk and all those mirrors. Pure horridness. Also, there's a brand new Turkish barbershop in town {because what the folk in my little rural town really need is somewhere else to get their hair done and beautify themselves} which seemed exceedingly busy at the weekend. But, sadly, it's the topic of worthlessness hinted at in the dream which seems even more accurate. Yesterday was a down in the dumps day. That's the bestest way I have of describing it. No Oompf, a smile which hid a multitude of swirling thoughts of emptiness, and a sudden desire to just stand up and walk out of work, just because ... I can see in your window. Put a top on, old man!