I must remember to post this...

Who are you and what are you doing on my blog?

My memory is not too crash hot. That’s a fact. And while I remember, if you’ve seen where I left my sunglasses can you let me know? Ta.

Anyway, I had occasion to reflect on my less than impressive memory as I got my hair cut today. The lady who cuts my hair had done so once before, in mid-December. She sat me down in the chair and said, “Now, last time we took some weight off and razor cut with some other stuff, etc, length of your sideburns, then more stuff about hair.” This may not be what she said verbatim. I can’t remember. The point is, I was impressed that she could remember how to cut a hairstyle she had done once before two months previous.

As she was washing my hair in the basin (the best bit!) she ventured: “Are you a teacher?” I told her I was. “Yeah, I thought so, but I wasn’t sure, so I wasn’t going to say anything.” I pointed out that she did in fact say something. “Oh yeah.” she replied matter-of-factly. “Actually, I guess I was pretty sure.” I suggested that may have something to do with her eidetic memory, which she laughed off.

It was at this point that I felt I had to reveal my secret shame: when I had called up to make the appointment I had not been able to recall even her name. She’s lucky I remembered what time my appointment was, having made it in the far reaches of the past (I.e. yesterday). The conversation of the making of the appointment went like this. Probably.

Me: “Hello, can I make an appointment for a haircut, please.”

Receptionist: “Just a haircut?”

Me: “Yeah. Nothing crazy.”

Receptionist: “And who normally cuts your hair?”

Me: “.... right. I thought you might ask me that.”

Receptionist: “Have you been here before?”

Me: “Yeah! I got my hair cut by... a lady.”

Receptionist: “....”

Me: “I can’t remember her name. There, I said it.”

Receptionist: “Oh, okay. Well, do you mind who cuts your hair?”

Me: “I’d quite like her to do it again, if possible. Look, I can remember my own name, if that helps. If I give you that can you do some CSI-like cross-checking?”

She could, and she did. My question is this: should I be concerned? It’s not like I have immense pressure on my memory. I pretty much have to remember my Playstation login code and which drawer I keep my socks in and that’s it. But what happens when I have kids? I suspect I’m going to be the one who forgets to pick my kid up from soccer practice; then they resent me; then they begin to write bad poetry, probably on the bedroom walls to really wind me up; then they’ll probably get into illegal substances which will, of course, screw up their memory. It’s like a whole cycle. How bad does your memory have to be before you’re a danger to society?

In conclusion, I... um... what was I talking about, again?