I was out cross-pollinating the blog world when I realised that
I HADN’T TOLD YOU ABOUT MY SHORT HAIR
(short hair, not short hairs)
It happened one chilly February morning. The sun was shining bright, but shining like cold steel. A bitter draught was blowing through the letter box which kindly Postman had managed to prop open. I sat upon the throne, shivering and contemplating life and the existence of extraterrestrial intelligence. Suddenly, a thought occured to me, floating up from the murky recesses of my mind like a bubble released underwater (think bath time. Oh come on, we’ve all done it!).
Basically, I wet my flowing locks (this is not an euphemism for pissing in one’s pants) and then cut them off with a blunt and rusty scissor. Unfortunately, when my hair dried, it sprung up a couple of inches owing to its curly nature. So what was intended to be a chin-length, Kurt Cobain-cut, ended up as sorry-poodle look. Panic set in. This was a Monday morning. Which could only mean that later on in the day it was going to be a Monday night. And we all know what Monday nights are: Footage Night. (For the uninitiated, The Footage and Firkin is a fine, reputable establishment full of eighteen-year-old students (and us, the wolves amongst the sheep) and is the centre of most of our nefarious doings ) How could I party with hair like this?? Luckily Tracy was on hand to apply a masterful touch to the back of my hair (that’s the hardest bit). Now I’m like Hugh Grant, only my name has different initials. And other letters.