She Who Must Be Locked In The Cupboard Under The Stairs With The Spiders has decreed that enough is enough: I must get a haircut. Which kinda puts the skids under the whole Ludvig Van Beethoven thing I’ve got going on the top of my head right now.
I don’t like haircuts. Haircuts are the Devil’s way of making us shorter. But She Who Thinks Layers Are Acceptable In Modern Society asserts that if I am to be pretty for my fans (a stretch, but you have to close your eyes and click your heels three times) then a haircut is necessary. And if I don’t she’s going to make my life a misery (and she’s from Fife, and that kind of thing is second nature to them – smelling of linoleum and living in caves and all that). Bad enough she made me shave today -- thus sacrificing my much envied proto-Grizzly-Adams status -- without having to go through the ordeal of a haircut as well. When no one’s looking, I’m going to go bald. That’ll teach her.