WWN Investigates: Why Hairdressers Take Mondays Off
Hairdressing is one of the world’s oldest professions, dating back thousands of years to when the first Homosapien began grooming their fellow human being with sharp flint stones in a bid to bring their temperature down during the hot summer months.
Today we investigate a local salon, and ask the age old question: ‘Why do hairdressers take Mondays off?’
Beginning our investigation into this rather weird time-out choice, we secretly surveyed one of Waterford’s premiere salons, who openly admits on their website to closing Mondays for no apparent reason.
We followed staff members from The Hairy Crotch as they closed their shutters and made their way to a local bar.
Four female staff members enter popular bar and order Mojitos all round. They seem happy another week has gone. Men in Ben Sherman shirts and Firetrap jeans parade around them, looking for attention. The girls seem oblivious to this rather strange mating ritual. They continue to enjoy themselves, still wearing their black outfits from work.
The women split into three groups: two stay in the bar while the other two make their separate ways. We follow one woman who just goes straight home while maintaining surveillance on the remaining pair – who now seem to be out for the night. We lose the other woman who gets a taxi somewhere. Obviously a boring shite.
Now very drunk, both women are being chatted up by two members of Waterford’s Ben Sherman army. They seem keen, but we suspect they are trolling the idiots for drinks. Both men look identical to one another in muscular ability and fake tan. Both men probably got their hair cut at the same time in the same place; could they be customers? Who knows.
The hairdressers are now in Abra ordering Taco fries and a coke. The men, not too far behind in the queue, offer to buy the food for the ladies, but they tell them they’re fine and just want to go home to bed. Realising they’re wasting their time, both men eat their food and go outside to view one of the many drunken fights on the Waterford street. One of the men, obviously annoyed at not getting his hole, joins in an argument for no reason and manages to fall head first into a taxi cab, smashing its windscreen. Gardaí watch on in amusement as the girls slip home to the same house.
We follow and wait.
The curtains go back in the bottom floor of the house. Both women can be seen inside. They look sick and pale. They’re wearing onesies. The TV goes on. Nothing much to report.
Sunday Noon to 9pm
Very little to report apart from two take away deliveries and a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses who got fucked out of it at the door by one of the hungover girls. Movement at 9pm suggests women are going to bed. Lights out at 11pm. We continue camping outside, order pizza. Play scrabble. Masturbate into dock leaf.
Both women leave the house at the same time. They appear to be wearing their work clothes. Why? It’s their day off. We’re close to cracking this mystery. We follow both hairdressers into town. They look suspicious. One woman goes towards a local Chinese take away while the other goes down O’Connell Street. We decide to split up using walkie talkies to communicate. The second woman also enters another Chinese take away. Both restaurants are closed for the day, as with the majority of Chinese restaurants in the city. There is a connection here.
The two women both leave at exactly the same time and visit two more Chinese restaurants. We decide to follow them in. What we find blows our minds.
Large queues of Chinese men and women can be seen outside an office door. I radio my accomplice who reports a similar scenario. We decide to make our move and join the queue, squinting our eyes. Scissors and razor noises can be heard. No one here speaks English. Free prawn crackers are being passed around. They’re stale, but edible. We’re on the verge of something huge.
It’s my turn in the queue, and I enter. The hairdresser seems spooked by my Caucasianness. A large pile of raven black hair is on the ground. The game is up.
“What are you girls up to here?” I demand. “We’ve been following you. Why are you hairdressers always off on Mondays? Tell me!”
“Okay, okay. You’ve caught us,” the distraught woman tells me. “For years we have been cutting Chinese people’s hair on Mondays in exchange for free meals on weekends. I don’t know why we do it, but this pact dates back decades before I was even born.”
My fellow reporter also confirms the same story at his location, beating the confession out of his mark.
Apparently for years, hairdressers and Chinese restaurants have been liaising with each other on Mondays, moonlighting; taking the day off to help each other out.
“We scratch their backs, and they scratch ours,” she tells us, only after I administered a Chinese burn.
“What about everyone else who needs their hair cut on Mondays? Huh? What about those poor people?” I asked, forcing tears from her pathetic lying face. “Do you think this is fair? If anything you’re being racist. Racist to your fellow countrymen.”
She had no comeback.
Following our expose, both women filed assault charges against us to the local Gardaí. However, we are not fazed by their cowardly actions as we are just doing our jobs: exposing lies and corruption in the very underbelly of Irish society.
We won. They lost. The End.
You’re welcome Ireland.