After the Cape Crawl I wrote last week, I decided to put my money where my mouth is. To walk the talk. I abandoned all and any ideas of a head band and made an appointment with the hairdresser. Nice and early, her first appointment, so I could get in and out, and still have plenty of time to do what the rest of my Saturday required of me. Hairdresser was already at her chair as I arrived, with the shop assistant hurtling in just after me. She looked filled with anticipation, yet exhausted. Bubbling over with excitement, yet apprehensive. Joy oozed from her, anticipation in her every movement. But most of all: she glowed with the possibility of LOVE and VICTORY! What on earth could cause so much excitement, I wondered, so pretending to be engrossed in that well-read, limp cornered and filled out crossword puzzle magazine I had in my hand, I tuned my ears in to the conversation taking place behind me.

Twenty-five men! Shop Assistant gushed. There will be twenty-five men in town later today. And that is only the players. How many spectators will there be? They are expecting the stadium (which perhaps seats all of five hundred) to be full to capacity! Oh, my penny drops. It must be rugby. Rugby in these little towns is big business. Locals will happily skip a test match between the Springboks and England to be at a match between teams from two neighboring towns, in this case: Bredasdorp against Kleinmond. And that is not all, Shop Assistant elaborates. There is going to be a pre-match, and Legends have been roped in for this. By now, I am not even pretending to read my magazine. Who are the Legends, I ask? I watched Sons of Anarchy on Netflix. I know all about motorbike gangs, who call themselves Legends, and if my road home is at risk of crossing paths with bikers, I need to know about this. Relax, Hairdresser says. The Legends are the older players. More like the Veterans, she says.

Yes! Shop Assistant says. It is going to be so exciting. She was up before sunrise to get all her housework and chores out the way (which explains her exhaustion before work). She is hoping to leave work a bit early (hopeful glance at Hairdresser) so she can make her way to the stadium nice and early. But first she must pop by the beauty shop to have her nails painted, and maybe between clients today at the Salon, she can set her hair? Come on, she taps me on my shoulder, time to rinse your hair, hurry up, I have things to do, she says. Scrubbing away at my scalp, she chats on about the players. They all have new rugby boots, sponsored by one of the local businesses (here I picture bright green boots with Agrimark! Your one-stop-grass-shop printed all over them). Oh, and the pharmacy has sponsored all the Legends with a Voltaren injection. Oh look! Speak of the devil. There they go. The cheering outside was deafening, as the Legends made their way to the pharmacy for their fix. Even I tried craning my neck out of the washbasin to see the men of the moment better. Keep your head down, I was commanded. You are going to get the floor wet, and does it look to you like I have time to dry floors today, Assistant chirps.

I move to a chair. Huge towel around my head. Shop Assistant rubbing away at my locks. I am planning to sit with the adults today, she says. I don’t want to sit with my friends. What is the fun in that? – I venture. Eyes wide stretched (I mean, how stupid can I be?) she proceeds to explain: There are going to be twenty-five new men in town today. Twenty-five new possibilities. Now, if I sit with my friends, I will get drunk too quickly, which may translate into twenty-five missed opportunities. (By the way, at this point, I am still sitting with a faded pink towel on my head, and assistant, is on her second big hair curler being rolled and pinned on her own head. Where is Hairdresser in all of this? Down the passage, outside the pharmacy, admiring the brave Legends lining up for their shots.) If I sit with the adults, I will not drink so much and will then still be all bushy tailed when the players gather for the after-match celebration. Winners get the spoils; she giggles in happy anticipation. And what if the other team wins, I ask. Beggars can’t be choosers; she says through a mouth full of hair pins. Another one of the local businesses has sponsored the post-match celebratory drinks, on condition none of the players pitch for the match complaining of a hangover from the night before. And he is serious, she says. He told them: I know all your watering holes, Boys, and I will be checking on each of them, and if I find you there having a drink before the match, there will be hell to play.

With my hair finally done, I arrived home. I had abandoned all my plans for shopping in Kleinmond. Clearly it is not a good day for shopping. I tell Colin about my morning, and about the Legends. What sort of age demographic would you say the Legends are?, Colin asks. Not too sure, I say. It was hard to guess their ages from such a distance with a towel over my head but going by the size of their boeps (that loosely translates into their paunches), I would guess anything between 20 and 50.

Colin has many responsibilities in assisting me with my blog. As you know by now, he takes care of technical stuff, does a proofread, and selects a photo to go with every week’s writing. Which photo do you expect me to use this week? I don’t have photos of men with boeps? As if on cue, my phone beeps. It is Youngest Son, with a photo of Oreo. Oreo is having his best day ever, Son writes. He has been chasing his little ball all morning. He even managed to score a try against the neighbours Chihuahua.

There you go, Colin. Problem solved.