Purveyor of Tall Tales.

Crazy Hair

My hair is out of control, I realised this today when, on catching my image in the window of a passing shop, I realised the top of my hair was staring back at me from the 2nd storey window.

It’s got so bad that London Energy are following me around looking for a break in the power cable – flight paths around city airport have been altered and the local foxes keep eyeing it up.

But I digress, my point: I need a haircut.

I do not do haircuts.

This is because I am petrified of hairdressers, they hate me. For example I have variously had part of my ear cut, my neck cut, my scalp cut, forced to have a flat top, had my side burns done unevenly, asked if my eyebrows could benefit from a trim and the piece de resistance: My ears were violated.

I’m not joking.

I was living on Roman Road in Bow, East London, it was October, the leaves were falling and my hair…well it was a mullet…and so I engaged in the highly dangerous dalliance of Getting a Decent Hairdresser and trying an expensive designer hairdresser in the vain hope of being safe.

On entering the salon a charming young lady who I could have quite happily let cut my hair till the end of time showed me to my seat and offered me a coffee. Right, I thought, I have this one cracked, we’re never moving from Bow, in fact I may just set up shop here next to the plastic potted plant.

How wrong can one-man be..?

My follicle Filly disappeared out the back and possibly the campest man on the planet emerged to cut my hair, I was mildly perturbed by this but I pushed it from my mind. The hair wash was vigorous and there was slightly too much shoulder to crotch contact for my liking but it still wasn’t in the danger zone yet.

Then came the towel to dry my hair.

The towel slid over my hair and then, under el campo’s vice like fingers, wrapped either end around my ears pressing and grinding my auditory equipment into shapes they just weren’t designed to be. The final piece of this humiliation came when the hairdresser stuck a towel-covered finger in either ear hole and twirled.

I have never been so shocked. I didn’t actually give him any instructions after that; in fact I don’t think I spoke until the next day after I had spent three hours washing my ears under a hot water tap.

For this I paid £25 for that haircut, apparently the ear rape was free – rather like my crazy hair.

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