Saturday, 17 February 2007
In The Name of The Father
Looked in the mirror this morning and red lights and alarm bells went off - it's time for a haircut.
This may come as a surprise to those who know me, but I'm a wee bit vain about the Barnett, having, as I do, nice thick growth compared to one or two of my shiny-domed mates.
The instructions on entering the barbers' shop in downtown Yokelsville have been the same for some years - ever since I ditched the ill-advised and short-lived mullet - No.3 or 4 shave up the back and sides and neat and tidy on top - no frills.
I know it's time to get the thatch sorted out when I have to resort to artificial aids to look half-human in the mornings - by which I mean using combs or brushes rather than fingers.
Last night, in prepartion for a night out at a Caribbean evening in Shropshire with, among others, the man who set up London's congestion charge (long story and not as interesting as it sounds), I felt forced to borrow my wife's hair-dryer. That extended the getting-ready time from six to 11 minutes - a horrible waste of five minutes.
So I will be on the bus in about 20 minutes rady to face the scissors and the curious choice of 'stylists' - a lugubrious 60something Born Again Christian with a huge moustache or the hyperactive 21-year-old lass with bottle-blonde hair and terrific cleavage.
Which brings me to a dilemma. What happens in a fortnight when I am stuck on a rock off the north coast of Scotland. I understand there is someone on Westray who cuts hair, but maybe it's time for a change.
It's been a long, long time since I let the hair grow - early 80s in fact, when, before a night out, I used to lie on the bed with my head hanging over the edge, slapping in the gel and blow-drying it in a pathetic attempt to look like Robert Smith of The Cure. (yes,I realise this is giving away far too much)
Anyhow, I'm kind of inclined to go for the long locks again - at least while I am on my own for a few months.
It's probably a horrendous idea, but if I only have dogs, pigs and chickens to judge me, why should I be bothered. My wife, when asked, shrugged and said "do what you like", my 14-year-old daughter added "no way, er maybe, well yes".
So I'm throwing this one out to all four of you who read this stuff. Let's have a heated debate. Should I go the full "Mel" as in Braveheart, stick with the sensible trim or go for something in between - Lulu maybe?
Until I've worked out how to set up a poll on the blog, e-mail your replies to email@example.com.