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In The Popes Opinion

This Belfast man, a fervent Catholic since the day he was born, went into his hairdressers up the Falls Road. As he was having his short back, sides and front, the hairdresser got to chatting with him, as hairdressers will, and finally got around to asking him where he was going for the summer holidays, as hairdressers invariably do.
I'm going to Rome in a week,' says yer man, 'and I'm tremendously excited about it, for it's me first trip.'
'Don't be,' says the hairdresser, snipping off a wee bit he hadn't noticed the first time around. 'The place is pigging, the food would make you sick and the women are one and all like the back end of a Citybus/
'Ach well/ says yer man, I don't mind. As long as I get to see the Pope, I'll be happy enough.'
'See the Pope?' says the hairdresser, scrubbing in the Brylcreem. 'You haven't a mission. St Peter's Square is filled twenty-four hours a day with about ten million people, and when he comes out on the balcony all you can see is this tiny wee white dot the size of a pinhead.'
So yer man heads off to Rome anyway, and a month later he's back in the hairdressers for a trim.
'Well,' says the hairdresser, 'did you make it to Rome?'
I did indeed,' says yer man.
'And was it as bad as I said?'
'Not a bit of it. It was as clean as a freshly painted doorstep, the food was so gorgeous it would have made ye weep, and the women were like something left behind by the angels.'
'That's amazing,' says the hairdresser. 'But did you see the Pope?'
'See him?' says yer man. 'Didn't he come down off the balcony and wander through the crowds, and wasn't I talking to him and even shook him by the hand?'
'You're not serious,' says the hairdresser. 'What did His Holiness say to you?'
'He said, "Where in the name of God did you get that haircut?"'


 
 


 
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