Getting it stuck to me by The Man as a result of my own incompetent attempt at petty criminality
Only this morning, I was wandering merrily down the streets of Edinburgh not doing an awful lot when I became increasingly conscious of the fact that my fringe was flopping about in an irritating manner, getting in my eyes and generally looking a bit shit.

'Time for a trim', methought. I bent my steps accordingly towards my usual hairdressers', only to find that the entire place was boarded up for a fortnight-long refit. Curses.

For those of you not in possession of a fringe, suck on this fact. Hairdressers will trim fringes for free, as many times as you like, providing you got the original cut at their salon. As mentioned above, though, said original salon wasn't open for business. And my fringe was still looking shit.

Disconsolate, I began to mooch homeward, but as I went (dodging the slack-jawed bumbling tourist hoardes who seem to emerge from the pavement at the slightest hint of clement weather) a plan began to form in my mind. Why not, I thought, just dodge into any old hairdressers', and try my luck at pretending to be a regular client? We probably all look the same to them, considering how many punters they must coiff in a day. So, sparing little thought as to the details and giving my lieing muscles a mental rub-down, I trotted into the first salon I came across, which happened to be a branch of a popular nationwide franchise.

All went well at first. I successfully negotiated the desk-gimp by distracting her with a compliment on her t-shirt. She told me to take a seat and wait for the next available hairdresser.

'Oh,' she said, almost having forgotten, 'when did you say you were last here?'

'About three months ago,' I lied smoothly. This was easy.

'And your name is...?' she enquired, leaning across to her computer keyboard.

Shit, I thought. Think quick. 'Er....Sarah,' I replied.

'And your surname?'

'Er....er....Williams. Sarah Williams.' I have no idea where that came from.

Fuck. This was not going well. She turned to the computer, a slight frown overcasting her orange-masked features.

'What's your address?'

Oh, balls. Why did I do this? I'm in way over my head. 'I've er, just moved actually,' I lied frantically.

'It's just we've got four Sarah Williams on our database. Were you the one at **** Street?'

'YES!' I cried desperately. 'But I moved, now, and....er...I've already forgotten my old postcode, so....'

This was dire. I very much wished I hadn't got myself into this fix. I cringed inwardly, waiting for the management to be called and massive embarrassment to ensue. Unexpectedly, though, she smiled. 'That's fine,' she said. 'Take a seat, it won't be long.'

Relieved, I dragged myself to the nearest chair and pretended to look at some magazines detailing the breakfasting habits of the various members of Girls Aloud. Sure enough, soon I was seen to by an anonymous scissor-bint and emerged ten minutes later, triumphantly pleased with myself at having scored a free (partial) haircut. Take that, overpriced chain of salons! I was just about to leave the building as quickly as possible when the desk-girl called me back.

'Just a moment,' she said. 'I'll need your new address to update our records, and as it's been over two months since your last visit, there'll be a £5 charge. Is that OK?'

Shit. This was really not worth it. The upshot was I had to stand there babbling some made-up address (it's harder than you think on the spot) and generalised postcode) while she ran my card through the machine. I had utterly failed to take into account that this might happen. On the front of said card in glorious silver letters, is, of course, my actual name. Neither 'Sarah' nor 'Williams' make up any part of it. Once the payment had gone through she took out the card and very conspicuously stared at the name upon it, then at the screen, then at me.

'I got married!' I squeaked in a strange, strangled accent. 'That's why it's not my name! I didn't have time to get it changed yet!' I carefully shifted my satchel so as to conceal my ring-free left hand.

'Right,' she said. That was all she said, but what a weight of disbelief, disapproval and pity was contained in that syllable. She knew, and I knew she knew. I was a fraud. I got out of there and hurried away down the street, very red in the face indeed.

So I suppose I didn't really get it stuck to me in any financially punative sense, but I do feel extremely silly. Oh well, plus ca change, frankly.

Length? About a centimetre shorter and much tidier than it was.
(jennymnemonic, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 15:49, 3 replies)

Hahahahahahahaha this is marvellous.
"squeaked" as a description of a desperate tone of voice always works.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 21 Jun 2010, 15:55, closed)

Ah Scots ...
tighter than a nun's mimsy.

I was waiting for a pun involving the word Fringe, seeing as you're in Edinburgh. Disappointed am I.
(Que?, Tue 22 Jun 2010, 3:51, closed)

Totally cringeworthy
Have a click from another Edinburgh resident. At least you gave it a go. Would you have still tried it had this not been the QOTW?
(Reverend Fister "a disciplined fuckwit", Tue 22 Jun 2010, 11:01, closed)