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Fuss About Nothing
All of you will know my hair situation; thanks to some rather shoddy familial DNA and an abundance of testosterone it’s not holding onto my head as well as it could. Hence I keep it short myself, with a wireless trimmer in the shower, and the lovely Jo tidies up the edges so I don’t look too much like a homeless person. However, it’s that time of year again, the arrival of the annual barbers visit, when Jo decides she’s had enough and I am forced to get a “proper haircut”. So off I trod this afternoon to the mall, like a disgruntled five-year-old whinging, that I didn’t want to go. On the second floor of our local mall I narrowly avoided the temptations of “Spike & Curly”. It seems that as I’m over the age of twelve I’m not allowed to sit in the little chairs and play on Xbox as I have my hair cut. They’re missing a big segment of the overgrown boy market. So in I trod to the grown-ups barbers where a woman in a fitted suit ushered
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