Truths of Old

I've just been funked.

Ouch.

In the aftermath of a spectacularly less than successful exam (thank you Royal College of Surgeons, not just for sending me late notification of acceptal for exam, but also for changing the syllabus without telling us, whoohoo...) I decided to get my hair cut.

Well no actually I've been dying for a haircut since a week ago when my fringe began to overgrow my ears. It really bugs me when it does that and I wind up obsessively gelling it back and looking like something out of the Godfather.

So it's down to Covent Garden for my nice predictable haircut at Hair by Fairy, stylists are queer as folk but pretty good, normally.

Today I draw The Italian.

Same's always. "number four on the back and side please"

Settle down into chair. Close eyes.

"Ah, and you like a little messy on the top yes?"

Eh? How did he know. That's how I always look anyhow.

"yeah, sure."

Oww. Argh. Ouch. Wha. Why's he pulling on my hair.

Slice. AArg. This guy isn't so much cutting my hair as ripping it out with the scissors, in a rather... surprisingly painless way.

open eyes. Oof.

Err. Ri-ight. I think this guy has something for Angelus from Buffy....

good thing I'm not working anymore at the moment. I'd never live this one down...