Hair today, gone tomorrow.

(today's post is one more from the archives )- the editor

Even if you are a careful reader of this blog you will not have met him before.

Even if you diligently stumble among the links I sometimes throw your way, you will not know his name.

EVEN if you have explored these posts enough to realise that there are other pages.

EVEN, and this is systematic of what I am trying to tell you, even if you found the blog’s published character list on page 2.

He has remained nameless.

John.

There you are; you have it.

Not John He–of-the-mushroom (who is in fact Jhean) who appears here, nor John He-of-the-mirror who appears here.

But John He-of-Lincoln.

Last night he phoned me, we spoke at length and mid-conversation – I know not why – I was convinced that I was talking to someone who had a pretty bizarre haircut.

It sounded as if his hair was cut so that on the crown of his head, from front to back, there was a raised tuft.

This tuff was thick, this tuft was substantial and this tuft had been dyed differently than the surrounding hair so that everyone could see that this was a badass tuft.

Never before has someone’s coiffure been evident to me through telephone communication alone.

The last time I had heard from John He-of-the-tuft I was a young, underfed and struggling juggler and he was a successful international executive.

I had learnt this from a letter his mother had sent my mother and which my mother thought to use to try to persuade her skinny struggling son to reconsider his chosen career path.

I am pretty sure his hair was tuftless.

Now what is really weird is that an hour or so later when he turned up at my door – his phone call had been to ask directions to my skinny little house – it turned out that the centre of his scalp was adorned by glowing golden cockatoo punk spikes.

A nice contrast to his business suit.

We shook hands, and I stared.

And that's when I woke up and the dream faded.

I came down stairs; I made a pot of tea, noticed that the sun was on the edge of the terrace and I came out and sat here.
A woodpecker rattled.

And I wrote this.

It’s March and I’ve been invited to an important artistic event at the end of April.

There will be champagne (I hope), illuminati and intelligent conversation.

And there lies my dilemma – I will want to impress and look my best!

Today my hair, although unruly, looks good enough to sit down with good company in, but in six weeks time there is no knowing what sort of a shambles it will be!

Do I take that risk, or do I get it cut today and hope that it will have grown back in time for people not to laugh at it?

The last time I went to the hairdresser I came out looking like a wombat, and I had to stay in the house for two weeks in case anyone saw me!

The worry is affecting my sleep!

Help!

Even my dreams are askew!