24 February 2006

Baldylocks and the three hairs.

I am not a morning person. I prefer to arise at the crack of noon, so my usual morning ablution ritual includes much frenetic scampering and profanity.

Today is no different. I end up half an hour behind schedule; brushing my teeth whilst drinking coffee. Sometimes this makes my coffee minty fresh if I place the toothbrush in the coffee rather than the proper cup; but that’s a small price to pay for regularity.

Today, I notice that a tuft of hair is sticking out of the side of my head, fully one half inch further than the rest of my hair. I pull out the dog clippers.

Why do I use dog clippers you ask? Well, I’m sick of spending $30 a clip for a haircut from “Armand” who, despite living in this country for twenty odd years, is still confused about the whole American “Good /Bad touch” concept.


No thank you Armand. I do not need a backrub; besides, even in gayest Pareé they are aware that that is not my back.

Dog clippers, on the other hand, cost less than a single Armand haircut, and don’t squeal nearly as much when I hold their heads underwater (just joking, of course. It would be a very foolish act to immerse a set of electrically live dog clippers in water).

So, while brushing my teeth, I take a swipe at the offending tuft and am rewarded with a decent sized clump of hair in the sink. I take another couple of swipes to even it out when it finally occurs to me that the clumps of hair in the sink represent far more hair than the misbehaving tuft. The plastic guard has fallen off the clippers, and I now have a four inch square supplemental bald spot on the side of my head.

Hmm. There is a fake scar kit leftover from Halloween. I can put it on the shaved region and pretend that I have been lobotomized into upper management. Brains! Braiiins!

Alas, the boys have shaved the cat’s rear and have used all the scar putty to make a very angry FrankenKitty.

I try for the tonsured look, but I simply do not make a convincing monk. It all has to go.

Later, at work, I am the butt of much weak humour. Irish Bob, in particular, has a field day.

Yuck it up, Bob. You have brought in raisins as a snack; just handing me the bet.

Just one more bug, and I’ll be drinking my free pint of stout.


And that's the way I likes it.