On Tuesday night I went a bit nuts and chopped off all my hair. Well, not all of it. About twelve inches or so, perhaps fifteen. Well it’s what you told me to do. I thought I would be sorry, but now I’m only wondering why I didn’t do it before. It doesn’t matter that I did it at twenty to eleven in the evening, with kitchen scissors, using the mirror for only as long as I could stand up, which wasn’t long. I filled our bathroom bin, which is about the size of a waste-paper basket, with hair. I should have saved it and sold it - somebody could have had a nice wig out of that. I also should have sold some of the drugs that I then proceeded to throw out in the ruthless reorganisation of the medicine drawer that followed. It wasn’t the only ruthless reorganisation that took place between twenty to eleven and about half past twelve when I finally fell asleep.
I don’t like hairdressers for three reasons. One is that you have to sit there for half an hour or so either looking at yourself in the mirror or reading a women’s magazine. I maintain a reasonably healthy self-image simply because I spend only short periods of time looking in the mirror and I never read women’s magazines. The second reason is the tipping. The system of obligatory tipping is totally dishonest; I am being cheated because the real cost is significantly more than the stated cost and the hairdresser is being cheated because really they should be paid enough by their employers in the first place, perhaps getting a tip only when they have done an exceptionally good job. The third reason is that hairdressers love my hair. I am sure that they are complementary to all their customers, but they really go on about it. Once I asked to have it cut short and the woman refused. She said I had lovely hair and she couldn’t bring herself to cut it. She gave it a trim instead. I still felt obliged to give her a tip.
It looks fine short. Of course it is somewhat asymmetrical and higgledy piggledy, but then so is so much beauty in nature (!). It feels much better and I imagine that the ends might actually dry before the roots get greasy again. I was in a rather impulsive state when I committed this deed and I only just resisted the temptation to shave my head (as 15% of you requested). That, I probably would have regretted, because of the cold and it would probably have itched after a few days.
Yesterday we went to Scarborough and had a picnic on the Marine Drive looking out to sea, which was very nice. I felt a bit ill in the car, but I was generally okay. I bought a tube of spot cream which was in a cardboard box and when I got home I found that the cardboard box was empty. I took this as a good omen, like when you have a Kitkat with no wafer in or when you get shat on by a seagull. So all is well with my particular corner of the world.
I wanted to write something serious about the South Asia Earthquake, but this morning my mind is on trivial things. Maybe tomorrow - I bet your can't wait!