Actually there's a wee story connected to that ( I tend to have a wee story connected to most things mind you ) which as you can all well imagine has sod all to do with trading but I'll tell you it anyway.
Strange as it may seem I have always had a phobia about hair dressers. I'm not scared of them, I just can't talk to them while they are cutting my hair. Strange I know, but then most phobias are strange. Now no-one who knows me would ever describe me as ' shy ' or 'a bit quiet'. You may well have a whole list of descriptions, but even I know that the words 'shy or a bit quiet' won't be needed.
Anyway, for those of you who remember the Beginners Disaster thread, this hair dresser phobia was actually what caused me to buy the hair clippers to destroy, I mean CUT my own hair. I don't want to tell a hair dresser where I'm going on my holidays, or why I'm not at work, just cut my hair and let me go !!
So moving on to the morning of the vasectomy, you can probably imagine, considering this hair cutting phobia, I wasn't exactly the most talkative guy you've ever met. Add that to the fact that the "operating room" was no more than a broom cupboard with a trolley for me to lie on rather than the vast theatre with flashing monitors and a defib machine, just in-case I 'crashed', that I was expecting, then it's fair to say I was, how shall I put it, absolutely sh****ng myself.
Then in comes the doctor who proceeds to instruct me to drop my tweeds and hop up on to the trolley, or vice versa, didn't really matter as long as the end result was me on the trolley with my trousers at my ankles.
Her first course of action was to administer the local aneasthetic, under which the "operation" would be carried out, not that this was necessary as by now my entire body had went numb from head to toe and at this point I vaguely remember one of us saying to the other one, "You may just feel a little
pr*ck." though I can't be sure who it was. I fear however it may well have been me as most parts of my body had entered retreat mode some 5 minutes earlier, except for my sweat glands that is who where relentlessly performing their given duties with gay abandon by now.
Anyway, after assuring me that I had just been given the injection, she picks up the scalpel, and with it hovering inches above the last part of your body you want a scalpel anywhere near and with the room light glinting off it's razor sharp edge, my hand to God she pauses. And after a couple of seconds, which seemed like 3 hours at the time, she turns to face me and says, "So, are you going away on holiday this year?"
Swear to God.
My minds racing, I'm in a panic, considering the circumstances I'm under severe pressure, and now she's went and asked "the hair dresser" question. I had to think fast, not on my feet obviously, but I had to act nevertheless. Time to improvise.
Looking back on my life I have a tendency to link a lot of the things life throws you to golf. Like stressful times just like being in the deep rough etc, so it came as no surprise to me when faced with this question, that my mouth took the executive decision to bypass the brain and hand out some classic sports advice to the doctor.
"You just focus and keep your eye on the ball." it told her.