Clippers

Yesterday, a colleague of mine - let's call her 'S' - said that my head shape was unusual. I got my hair cut today.

These two things are not connected.

They genuinely weren't. In fact, I hesitated before having my hair cut because I thought just such a causal relationship would be assumed.

I was happy with my head shape. I'm not always happy with it - but I was yesterday.

When my hair is long, it goes through a cycle. When it's washed, it becomes fluffy and puffy and horrible. I look like an inflatable Lego man.

Then, it gradually gets greasier and greasier, and starts to look much better. The puff and the fluff is replaced by a ramshackle style. I look like I'm one of those sexy young people (bear with me), too busy to groom yourself properly, but too vain to stop worrying about it. That's where I was yesterday - all tousled and glamorous.

I don't know what affect this had on my head shape. I can only imagine it made it look pointer, flatter, 3Der, hairier or 8% Byzantine.

But this can't last forever. I'm not one of those people who can never wash their hair. You know which people I'm talking about: free-thinkers, free-lovers, children of the soil, Pagans, Carl Sagans, or students. I'm not one of those. So I had to wash it, and the brown cloud returned.

My hair was too long, and I had to destroy it. My head now looks considerably smaller.

But whilst 'S' and her cruel observations didn't force me into an unwanted haircut, people have done so in the past.

(I'm writing in a weird way today. It can't be helped. I have to be me.)

I remember when I was a young human (let's say I was 13), washing my hair. I don't think that was unusual, but the consequences were. I'm not sure if it was the length, the drying technique or the hair-care product in use, but my hair puffed out like a mushroom cloud. My puffy-fluffy 'fro had emerged.

It's not an Afro, or a Jewfro, as I'm not a member of either of those ethnic groups. And onequarterTrinidadChinesethreequarterscaucasianfro is a mouthful. But there it was.

I looked stupid and knew it.

It might have looked something like this:

This stupidness was confirmed at school the next day. An older boy laughed at my puffy hair-hat. There may even have been insults thrown. I don't remember the specifics. I've probably blocked them out.

Humiliated, I insisted that my mum take me to have my hair cut that night. I didn't want to face such a barrage again. She kindly took me, and I had my hair cut very short.

It might have looked something like this:

The following day at lunch, in the same seat, the same older boy laughed at my radically different, but equally stupid hair.

I'd learned an important lesson.

Don't kowtow to bullies - they will always find something to laugh at. Also, push them into traffic.

And so I did. That boy was laughing out the other side of his face. And peeing out the other side of his pelvis. I had the last laugh. He had his last solid meal.

Some of that isn't true. I think I lost the moral somewhere. It was probably about hair or the Manhattan Project.

Anyway, I now have short hair. My short hair doesn't go through a [Lego man > glamorous > filthbag > Lego man] loop. It will stay the same for some weeks. And my head shape will presumably stay quite consistent.

The life-cycle of my hair is fascinating. But no matter how much of it I send to David Attenborough, he's always to busy to cover it.

The story, not the hair.

My body hair is also hugely interesting, but the illustrative photos of that cycle have been confiscated by Thames Valley Police, along with the baseball bat I had earmarked for Sir Attenborough. It has a picture of his face on it, and is covered with my hair (and some of his I found in a scalp once).

I call it my Baseball Battenborough.

***

Stop writing...

NOW.