Day 126
I’ve been in hiding for most of the day.
No, I haven't had a contract put on my life by a group of fanatical Spice Girl's fans or the National Cat Breeders Society; I’ve tried to avoid an entity far more gritty and dangerous…the current Mrs. Snowman.
She has insisted I get a haircut prior to going on holiday.
Consequently I’ve spent the last few hours trying to avoid her with the determination of an erection in a cheerleader’s locker room.
You may remember, a couple of weeks ago I managed to sidestep this dreadful experience by using the simple ploy of combing it back and tying it in a pony tail. The problem is that whenever I don’t wear it in this fashion I look like Phil Spector with his fingers stuck in a light socket.
I conceded that a mild trim might be in order.
Mrs. Snowman had other ideas. For two hours she took great delight in showing me various pictures of male models and celebrities she’d discovered on the Internet.
“I’m sure you’d feel much better looking like that, wouldn’t you?”
Avoiding the obvious answer that I’d need several million dollars worth of plastic surgery to come anywhere near her aspirations, I instead showed her a topless photo of Sharon Stone and asked her the same question.
Have you ever heard the sound of a bee flying into a double-glazed window?
It was very similar to the noise made by the rolled-up newspaper as it resonated through the air immediately prior to connecting with the back of my head.
While I failed to duck quickly enough to avoid it, I was impressed by the way Mrs. Snowman’s aim has improved over recent weeks.
Be that as it may, the haircut was now inescapable.
Hairdressers fall into two categories: middle-aged men in tight pants and loose shirts who charge so much they have to be paid in bars of gold bullion or badly dressed young females who completed a three month vocational course and then two years sweeping the salon floor. They also tend to have no conversational skills unless it involves rap music or tampons.
After deciding that I wasn’t prepared to be either extorted by a well-tanned male fashion statement or subjected to a female who can’t cut up her own food or sit on a toilet the right way round without an instruction manual, I had to find an alternative.
I therefore chose to do the next best thing…
Nip up to the bathroom, stand in front of the mirror with a pair of scissors and have a go at doing it myself.
Prior to committing the hairdressing equivalent of assault with a deadly weapon, I focused my mind with the daily poker tournament. I thought it might aid my creative efforts by doing something that required analysis and exactitude.
In both areas I was completely wrong.
As usual, there were 12,000 runners with only about a third of them able to walk on two legs. Things started quite well and after the first two blind levels I’d increased to about 5,000 chips. I managed to avoid most of the donks and only got caught once when a particularly hairy individual got about a third of my stack with J-3 off against my Kings. Being rivered with trip 3’s always hurts.
I lasted just shy of three hours and after a series of bad beats, unplayable pockets and some stupid calls found myself eliminated out of the money.
It was time to improve my appearance.
Or not.
In a ‘eureka’ moment of self-awareness, and only two minutes into my efforts, I can report with certainly that cutting your own hair is a very, very bad idea.
Tufts that were previously attached to my head were now liberally scattered across the sink, my clothes and the floor.
The main problem seemed to be getting the symmetry correct.
I’d chop some off from one side and find that I’d cut fractionally more from the other. In order to match them up again to the same length, I had a go at the first side and the same thing happened.
I don’t think the results will be earning me many awards in the immediate future.
In fact, to be honest, the whole thing was the most colossal blunder.
Quite clearly I had to stop before I ended up looking like a punk rock singer with radiation poisoning.
I trudged back downstairs and turned the computer on.
As much as I hated to admit defeat, I’d have to visit the least expensive genuine hairdresser in the morning and therefore needed to find out a few items of trivia in order that I had something to talk about.
I’m not sure which will be worse; losing half my hair or chatting to semi-literate teenager about Eminem and sanitary towels.
All of a sudden baldness has its attractions.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0.38
No, I haven't had a contract put on my life by a group of fanatical Spice Girl's fans or the National Cat Breeders Society; I’ve tried to avoid an entity far more gritty and dangerous…the current Mrs. Snowman.
She has insisted I get a haircut prior to going on holiday.
Consequently I’ve spent the last few hours trying to avoid her with the determination of an erection in a cheerleader’s locker room.
You may remember, a couple of weeks ago I managed to sidestep this dreadful experience by using the simple ploy of combing it back and tying it in a pony tail. The problem is that whenever I don’t wear it in this fashion I look like Phil Spector with his fingers stuck in a light socket.
I conceded that a mild trim might be in order.
Mrs. Snowman had other ideas. For two hours she took great delight in showing me various pictures of male models and celebrities she’d discovered on the Internet.
“I’m sure you’d feel much better looking like that, wouldn’t you?”
Avoiding the obvious answer that I’d need several million dollars worth of plastic surgery to come anywhere near her aspirations, I instead showed her a topless photo of Sharon Stone and asked her the same question.
Have you ever heard the sound of a bee flying into a double-glazed window?
It was very similar to the noise made by the rolled-up newspaper as it resonated through the air immediately prior to connecting with the back of my head.
While I failed to duck quickly enough to avoid it, I was impressed by the way Mrs. Snowman’s aim has improved over recent weeks.
Be that as it may, the haircut was now inescapable.
Hairdressers fall into two categories: middle-aged men in tight pants and loose shirts who charge so much they have to be paid in bars of gold bullion or badly dressed young females who completed a three month vocational course and then two years sweeping the salon floor. They also tend to have no conversational skills unless it involves rap music or tampons.
After deciding that I wasn’t prepared to be either extorted by a well-tanned male fashion statement or subjected to a female who can’t cut up her own food or sit on a toilet the right way round without an instruction manual, I had to find an alternative.
I therefore chose to do the next best thing…
Nip up to the bathroom, stand in front of the mirror with a pair of scissors and have a go at doing it myself.
Prior to committing the hairdressing equivalent of assault with a deadly weapon, I focused my mind with the daily poker tournament. I thought it might aid my creative efforts by doing something that required analysis and exactitude.
In both areas I was completely wrong.
As usual, there were 12,000 runners with only about a third of them able to walk on two legs. Things started quite well and after the first two blind levels I’d increased to about 5,000 chips. I managed to avoid most of the donks and only got caught once when a particularly hairy individual got about a third of my stack with J-3 off against my Kings. Being rivered with trip 3’s always hurts.
I lasted just shy of three hours and after a series of bad beats, unplayable pockets and some stupid calls found myself eliminated out of the money.
It was time to improve my appearance.
Or not.
In a ‘eureka’ moment of self-awareness, and only two minutes into my efforts, I can report with certainly that cutting your own hair is a very, very bad idea.
Tufts that were previously attached to my head were now liberally scattered across the sink, my clothes and the floor.
The main problem seemed to be getting the symmetry correct.
I’d chop some off from one side and find that I’d cut fractionally more from the other. In order to match them up again to the same length, I had a go at the first side and the same thing happened.
I don’t think the results will be earning me many awards in the immediate future.
In fact, to be honest, the whole thing was the most colossal blunder.
Quite clearly I had to stop before I ended up looking like a punk rock singer with radiation poisoning.
I trudged back downstairs and turned the computer on.
As much as I hated to admit defeat, I’d have to visit the least expensive genuine hairdresser in the morning and therefore needed to find out a few items of trivia in order that I had something to talk about.
I’m not sure which will be worse; losing half my hair or chatting to semi-literate teenager about Eminem and sanitary towels.
All of a sudden baldness has its attractions.
Starting bank: $0
Current bank: $0.38