Being normal

At the ripe old age of 31, it seems like I finally have the semblance of a normal life. Which isn't to say that until now I've been living life on the edge, fighting off bears and trekking across uninhabited wildernesses. But (and I'm sure a few other freelancers will relate to this) until now I have always dreaded that inevitable first question as you sit down at the hairdressers for a restyle: 'So, is it your day off today?' Well.... where do I begin...? I usually just say yes and be done with it. But if she (for usually it is a she) presses me with 'So what is it you do then?' I tend to um and ah and mutter something about being a musician. 'Ooh! What do you play! My brother's in a band!' (I'm not meaning to typecast hairdressers with all these exclamation marks. If you're a hairdresser, please don't take offence. This is just my hairdresser. She has a lilting Penicuik accent and always follows up anything remotely negative with 'Ooh! Wha' a sheeyme!')

'Oh, I'm not that sort of musician', I say. 'I don't play for a living'. Crestfallen face.
'Ooh! Do you teach then?'
'No.'
Confused face.
'I'm, er, doing a PhD. On Beethoven. I also manage a contemporary music ensemble. And I run a choir.'
'Ooh! You sing!'
'Not really, I just run the choir.'
Return of the confused face.
'It's a managerial sort of thing.'
'Oh! My brother's band needs a manager!'
Er...

But this time, when I went to the hairdressers, I assumed the role of a Normal Person. Behold.

'So is it your day off today?'
Firmly: 'Yes it is.'
'So what is it you do then?'
'Well I'm just back at work after having my little boy.'
Cue squeal of delight. 'Ooh! What's his name? Have you got a picture?'
I get out a picture, and we discuss his blonde hair (yes, I say, I was indeed blonde as a child too), his enormous eyelashes and whether or not he sleeps through the night (he bloody well does). She asks me about his eating habits, how many words he has, when he started walking, whether he gets up to much mischief, how many days he does at nursery, if I want another one, and so on and so forth. This all goes on for a good half hour, during which time my hair is lopped, coiffed and straightened. As she's just dusting off the stray hairs from around my shoulders she remembers to ask:

'So what are you doing for work now when Alec (she's on first name terms now) is at nursery?'
'I manage a record label.'
Her face lights up.
'Ooh! My brother's band are looking for a record label!'
'It's a classical music label.'
Sad face.