Dumped, Actually(25)

I emailed Monica Blake and asked her for the contact details of the man she went to for her makeover. Unfortunately for me, his salon was only a forty-minute drive away.

I tried to make one final protest to Erica, but she was quite adamant that I should follow up ‘Dumped Actually’ with some personal experiences of my own – and she is my boss, so I drove the thirty-mile journey with a resigned and heavy heart.

I have never had a makeover. I have never wanted to have a makeover.

I consider myself to be a tidy bloke. I have a decent haircut. I mostly wear clothes that are in good condition. I have clean teeth and use an expensive deodorant. I have never once felt that my physical appearance has been of detriment to my mental health, so the idea that having a bit of manscaping done could help me get over being dumped by Samantha is ludicrous.

And yet, here I am. Stood outside The Scissor Misters with a doubtful look on my face.

When I walk into the salon, I am immediately greeted by a man in a kilt.

Now, the word ‘kilt’ may conjure up images of a big, burly Scotsman with tree-trunk legs and a beard you could lose a red squirrel in, but that is not the person who has bounded over to me as I close the door.

You wouldn’t think bounding was all that advisable for a man wearing a kilt, but this guy takes it all wonderfully in his stride.

‘Ach! You must be Oliver!’ he cries with excitement, in a lyrical Scottish accent, as he reaches me.

This is Laughlin McPurty. He looks exactly the way he does on the salon’s website.

I ask you, have you ever seen such a moustache in your life? Look how it curls at the ends. Look how well maintained that tiny hipster beard is. Look at how thin the wire rims on those achingly fashionable spectacles are. Laughlin McPurty is every inch the bang-on-trend style guru.

His sporran is probably full to bursting with quinoa and chia seeds.

And yes, sporrans are not usually bright yellow, and kilts are not generally aquamarine in hue, but Laughlin is clearly not a man afraid to break with convention.

‘It’s sooo good to meet you!’ Laughlin exclaims, and throws his arms around me like we’re long-lost brothers. ‘I was so excited to get your email!’ he tells me, finally breaking the embrace. ‘I read your article. Thought it was terrific. So sorry to hear of what happened to you and your lady. More than happy to show you some of the fantastic treatments we have. I’m sure they’ll make you feel much better about yersel’ . . . you’ll see.’ Laughlin throws his hands up above his head like he’s just scored the world’s campest touchdown. ‘All free as well! Being on Actual Life will be great advertising for us!’ He takes me by one arm. ‘So, c’mon, c’mon, let’s get a nice cup of bergamot, orange and mint rooibos tea in your hand, and we’ll talk about what we’re going to do with you today.’ Laughlin looks me up and down. ‘It’s clear you badly need my help,’ he tells me in a sympathetic tone.

Eh? I thought I looked quite good today. The skinny jeans are freshly out of the wash, I’m wearing my least battered pair of Adidas, and the chequered shirt is from H&M’s most expensive range. What’s he on about?

Laughlin leads me over to a row of chairs at the back of the salon, past another row in front of some enormous mirrors and a range of fiendishly complicated-looking contraptions that look like they’ve come straight off the set of a science fiction movie.

‘Now, sit yersel’ down here, and I’ll get one of the girls to prepare you some tea. My partner, Clyde, is away for the day, so he sends you his apologies. But there’s more than enough of us here to make sure you get the best level of service. The place doesn’t start to get busy until about lunchtime, so we’ll have plenty of time for you.’

Laughlin looks up as a young woman emerges from a door to my right-hand side.

‘Ah, Tina! Get Oliver here a bergamot and mint rooibos, would you?’

Tina nods, smiles at me and scuttles back through the door.

Laughlin then comes and sits beside me. ‘Now. What would you like to start with today, Oliver?’

I open my mouth to say something but, before I can, Laughlin lets out a little high-pitched gasp and thrusts out a hand.

‘No! Don’t you say anything! I know just what we should do for you first.’ He then grabs my right hand and holds it up to his face. He’s quite strong for such a scrawny bugger. ‘These nails need a good work-over, Oliver! A good work-over, indeed!’ He then points at my feet. ‘And I bet the ones down there are no better, are they?’ Laughlin then bends and starts to yank at my trainer. ‘Off! Off with it, Oliver! Let’s have a wee look at how bad things really are!’

Before I know it, I am divested of both Adidas trainer and Primark sock. Laughlin lets out another gasp. This one in horror. ‘Look! Look at those, young man!’ he cries, pointing accusingly at my feet.

I look down and inspect my toenails. Okay, they’re not what you’d call particularly neat. That’s what happens when you only have a pair of scissors with which to cut them, but they’re not dirty or a weird colour, or anything else that would cause Mr McPurty such obvious distress.

At this point Tina returns with whatever the hell Laughlin told her to put in my tea. Burger mat orange and mint robot boss tea doesn’t sound all that appealing, if I’m being honest.

Luckily, Laughlin’s priorities have changed from making me drink a weird herbal concoction to doing something about my apparently hideous foot talons.