Eight months ago, I warned that I was about to start cutting my own hair and advised you not to mourn on my account. Those of you who did so regardless can now put away the black habiliments because, in this exclusive follicular update, I am able to report as follows: my barnet has never looked better.
It has all worked out fine. I told you that I used to cut my own hair before and, despite occasional calamities such as long, mohican bits at the back, the results weren’t too bad. However, when I returned to civilisation, I went to a barber and, as chance would have it, he did a good job.
It was rarely to be repeated, unlike his opinions. I tried several other barbers after that, each of whom maligned his or her predecessor, and some of whom did the job in five minutes, earning thereby an hourly rate about which I – a top philosopher with a Black & Decker toolbox – could only dream.
Accordingly, I decided to take matters into my own hands. And when I say “matters”, I mean my cranium. Here is my technique for cutting my hair: I shut my eyes and run a razor over ma heid. I use a slightly sterner cut for the back and sides, and something slightly more liberal on the top. Result? Perfectly acceptable.
True, there’s always a wee, bald bit somewhere, but folk passing in the streets – even the 50 to 60 per cent who look at me suspiciously – never notice. It is my experience in life that very few people look at your heid close-up. If they do, you should alert a constable.
Today’s young persons also act as a barometer for when I need another haircut. If hair starts to look in any way bouffant or over regulation length, they titter. They do, madam. A little smile that they seemingly can’t help spreads over their smug coupons. It drives me mad.
Some sociology: we have reared a nation of titterers, who are much more conservative than our parents were. They scoff at anything that departs from the short-haired norm. My generation remains more dedicated to freedom: we go our own way and say a fie upon fashion, which is for fops, ken?
However, it’s not worth fighting any more. At the first sign of a titter, I waddle home swiftly and get the razor out, without having to find ten of your Earth pounds to pay a barber, and without having to perform beforehand three hours of fruitless prayer that, just for once, the hair economist would do what they were told.
One thing you must watch out for when doing your own hair is putting the razor on the wrong setting. I am used to this with my beard, when I have inadvertently shaved half of it off before realising my mistake. The choice then is to do the other half similarly or to gather up the fallen hair and superglue it back on.
I used to do the latter but, eventually, found the long hours sitting in accident and emergency rather tedious. Touch wood, so far, mistakes on ma heid have been few or minor. Just don’t – unless you wish to face the full wrath of the law – look too closely.
