The reverse Samson

Probably the second biggest news over the weekend (maybe the third if you factor in the Wallabies beating the All-Blacks) was my haircut on Saturday morning.

Man, did I need it! Cheeseboy, always blunt, said I looked like a paedo. My hairdresser, at the sight of me, said I looked homeless. And even I had become reluctant to go out in public. My hair had become so thick and unruly – and dry – that there was no styling of it and no chance of controlling it.

I did a bit of market research ahead of my cut about what I should do. The women in my life all said I should try and keep some length and look to have it styled more. The blokes were indifferent.

I checked my hairdresser, and we agreed that he had a fair canvas to work with and that let’s try and retain some length while taking it in at the sides. And that’s what we did, though it’s a bit different to anything I’ve had before.

The result is that I look about 15 years younger and no longer a menace to society. I was starting to feel pretty ugly, but now I’m back to being pretty presentable.

As I left the hairdresser, I could see my shorn locks on the floor. There was a fair amount there – about 7 months worth of growth, leaving a couple of months of it on my scone.

I’ve been wistful in the past about losing so much hair, but I felt liberated by it this time. Donate it to charity, I suggested to them, or perhaps to Advance Hair Studios for some poor, balding chump to make use of.

Me, I’m back!

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