A cut that wasn’t in the manifesto

It seems to be an unwritten law that as women age they cut their hair shorter. That young girl that bent forward and brushed her fountainous locks religiously five hundred times a day has curtailed the will to let loose her wispy strands. A less buoyant plant now adorns that crown, signifying maturity.

The follicles from the molecules of a man’s head, on the other head hand, have a mind of their own. They will disappear altogether or patch randomly in imitation of the fields seen from the window of an aircraft. Like fragile snowflakes no two heads of hair are the same.

With the good weather from the shores streaking inland, I decided to go out on a limb. Forsaking my usual slight trim and tidy up instructions, I gave the go ahead to shear my mane. Halfway into the operation I was half cut and wondered who the guy in the mirror was? The rest of the session passed in a blur of scissor cuts, razor rakes and barbed banter with the barber.

Although I was now the ultimate aerodynamically-correct machine ever built, problems existed. When I go to the Iron Maiden concert I’ll have to wear a wig.

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