It’s been dead as Michael Jackson since Christmas went off on its festive way. I’m twiddling my thumbs when the phone rings.
Me: “Hello, how can I help?”
An elderly gentleman is on the line.
Ricky: “Hello, might I speak to Jim, your Supervisor?”
Me:” He’s not here this weekend. Can I help?”
He is looking to return a magazine. I tell him if he comes in I’ll look after him.
Me: “If you come down to the service desk and look for the Bald Man; that will be me, I’ll look after you.”
Ricky: “Thank you so much. Speaking of baldness, I can’t stand it. If I go out and my hair gets messed up I feel so awful. I’m so vain about my hair. For my passport I tried to use a photo from 1999, but they wouldn’t allow it. I even wrote a song about hair and a comb- he starts singing: I never leave home without a comb. I never leave a home without a comb in case I meet a girl like you.”
The convention ends swiftly after that.
Christ on a unicycle juggling six oranges and an apple. What the hell goes on in this man’s head? # BaldManProblems