The hair and the tortoise
I was examinated yet again yesterday. This time, I was not once taunted by any tempting protractor theft–related temptations. Probably something to do with the fact that it was a geographical examination, rather than a mathematical one. I didn’t need a protractor.
Speaking of that event, I was on the bus one afternoon between then and now when a chap was boasting loudly about having stolen some mathematical instrument or other – it might have been a protractor too, come to think of it. He started off in a braying “I’m the king of fucking everything” state of mind, clearly hopeful that pretending to be some kind of exotic criminal would make him more attractive in the eyes of the opposite sex. But they all chided him quite vehemently, for being a naughty sleazy boy. And I thought, “hurrah, I’m better than that man”. Sure, I did consider it, but the buck stopped there – I am a much more moral and ethical person than he. Michael Buerk (Berk!) would be proud – although he’s not who I’m trying to impress. And, I imagine, he’s not who the unrestrained hobbledehoy on the bus was trying to impress either.
My hair has been growing, as hair does. It’s become quite long. Once upon a time, I remember noting that the realisation that you need a haircut comes when you look down at your shadow, with the midday sun behind you, and notice that you resemble a younger Jeremy Clarkson. But but unfortunately I’ve not walked alongwith the sun behind me for a while. And, perhaps more fortunately, I haven’t recently flicked through the EPG and thought, “I say, Clarkson’s Car Years looks jolly, I’ll watch that.”
But I’ve developed a new system for accurate assessment of when a trim is required. It works like this: when you can use those juicy fibres sprouting out of that bonce of yours to hold a range of different colouring pencils, it is time to go “snip snip snip” or “buzz buzz buzz”.
I have been using my hair as a pencil storage device recently. I am proud of my pioneering DIY enthusiasm. But, I decided, it had to stop. So last night, I stripped to my underpants – for it would be a tragedy to end up with hairy clothes – and went buzz buzz buzz – well, my father did; OK, the vibrating electric hair slicer machine in his hands – until my head had become the prickly willy-egg-doormat it is today. A bit brutal for now, but the waiting for it to grow into shape is part of the fun. And because I’m a heroic man of the people, I am beating the credit crunch by not going to the hair stylist. (I don’t remember that juicy lettering being there when I went.)
So, yeah, haircut. Going to have to find somewhere else to put my pencils. Also, might start doing the Dailybooth thing – seems a decent time to start, perhaps spurred on by Herrin. Then again, might not.
What else is there to say? I miss apples. Someone on Twitter mentioned an apple – assure you that it does get better than that – and I realised that I haven’t eaten one for a long time. I imagine that these days they are even better, without the bitter taste of dinosaur poo making things bitter.