‘Then I got taken hostage in Iran,’ said the lady sitting next to me in the hairdresser’s as she was having her hair crimped.
‘Really?’ said the hairdresser, who had the flat irons on her hair and was making her look like an 1980s pop star. ‘And how was that?’
He was obviously stuck in hairdresser mode, and having not heard what she had said, perhaps, was ploughing on regardless, assuming the chatter was about her holiday.
‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’ said the lady who had been admiring herself in the mirror as he worked and now turned her head a little to look round at this carefree, handsome man in his mid-forties who was crimping her.
The hairdresser must then have rerun the tape in his head and realised what she had said, and what he had said in reply. ‘Er, I mean, was that a good hostage experience or…?’
‘A good hostage experience?’ said the woman, incredulous.
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