Why did I think, when I am about to come to England to see family and friends that it was a good idea to get my hair cut?
Why when I’m about to meet blog friends with only the vaguest idea of what I look like, did I think it was a good idea to go to a new, different hairdresser?
If my hair were a person, it would have special needs.
If my hair had heroes, it would be Professor Trelawny and Crystal Tips from ‘Crystal Tips and Alistair’ (Alistair is the dog. Obviously. The dog has sensible hair.)
If someone was wishing not to offend me, they would call my hair interesting. Or big.
Why didn’t I realise going to the hairdresser after wearing a helmet at go-karting that pasted my hair attractively to my scalp, that the hairdresser would get the wrong impression of my hair?
Why, when the hairdresser told me it needed some body cut into it, did I not run as fast as possible screaming from the scissors?
Please. Please, if I meet you in England, don’t mention my hair.
