I got my head checked

Got my hair (what little has yet survived the ravages of male pattern baldness) cut on Saturday morning, in preparation for that evening's Duckie.  I'm a creature of habit and have, for the last five years or so, used the same £5-any-style barber just off Compton Street.  As my hairline's receded to resembling-the-Batsignal-outline extremes (the only thing I have in common with Jude Law, looks-wise) I've had it clippered back shorter and shorter.  These days, I ask for a half on the sides and two on top.  I don't really mind losing my hair.

Since starting back at work this week, three of my colleagues have asked me (in carefully neutral manner) if I've had my hair cut.  They don't usually comment.  I'm starting to wonder whether the chap who wielded the clippers has used the wrong guard or gone extra-high, or maybe shaved the word CUNT into the back of my head.

Did get complimented on the facial shrubbery, though, which was nice.  Beards really do seem to have been in vogue for gay and straight men alike for what seems like years now; I see that as the influence of the whole bear thing as it spread, cross-fertilised and diversified. Apparently tartan is very in this winter too, and I suppose that could be seen in the same light. According to the same fashion mag (can't remember which one), Victorian handlebar moustaches will be huge, sweetie. I look forward to it.