Please believe me when I say that it's shorter than my old haircut. You can't really see the complex layers in this photo, nor can you understand how brutally short this actually is. I'd never go bald, but this is about as close as I'll ever get. My hair used to reach down to my shoulders, and up until about two hours ago, I had about as much hair as Boris Johnson. It wasn't long, but there was a lot of it. Thanks to the skilled fingers of my hairdresser (yes, a hairdresser - I'm too feminine to actually go to a barber), I now have less hair than before. And thanks to the electric shaver I have on my desk and some disposable razors I bought, I'm going to have less beard than before this evening too. Not no beard... just a tidier one.
Not that I have much to look nice for. I'm going for a pizza tonight with 47, H, Robinson, the young raver, and some others (and you're all invited, if any of you have deduced my real identity and are brazen enough to randomly appear in the place where we're going... and happy hunting, there are about 15 pizza places near here) - and possibly even a drink too - but these are all my friends. I'm not trying to pull any of them. Still, it's my birthday. It's not your birthday every day. And I'm 26 now, so I may as well make an effort.
It's better than the massive green hat I got given last year though. The irony of a teetotaller being born on Saint Patrick's Day wasn't lost on my sister, who provided me with said hat.
Which, of course, I would wear in the pizza place tonight...
...except that I've had my hair cut, and I want to show that off instead.
What a shame.
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