Feeling Like a Shaved Bowling Ball.

After a wonderfully uneventful day at school - I headed off to my local town center in order to have my hair "styled" - as, of course, that's what all men do after a long hard day.

So - Me and my mop-like hair sat there, waiting for someone to come along and attempt to hack away at what could have easily been used to insulate the family home providing lower fuel costs for years to come. Sure enough, after a short wait standing awkwardly in the corner whilst all the more fashionable people sat on sofas, listening to the latest in cool-people music, reading their cool-people magazines - a guy came over, introduced himself - and took me to the "consultation chair".

The second I heard "consultation chair" - the idea of going to the doctors sprang into my mind - and I immediately thought I had walked into the wrong place, and was about to get the surprise of my life as he grinned, and slowly removed a pack of swabs from his pocket whilst applying a pair of rubber gloves. Luckily, all it was was a chair in front of a big mirror where you sit for five minutes whilst the guy mocks your poor hairstyle, and lists a seemingly endless list of things he wants to do to it (most of which was legal).

Before I could say "I'm homesick and I want to go home" - I found my head forced into what looked exactly like a male urinal from a local restaurant - but, to my great relief, turned out to be one of those oddly-shaped sinks they use to wash your filthy, commoner hair before they have to cut it with their higher-order, finely-crafted hands.

The next stylistic step in my attempted stroll down the fashionable hair catwalk was to sit in another chair, directly by the shop window so that people commuting in the local area could look in, and smirk at me with their manly credentials as I sat there with my hair soaking wet, all alone. Just as I thought that I was no longer loved, and was getting ready to leave - for the third time in one month, I though I was going to die. In the reflection in the mirror, I saw a guy walk towards me holding a pair of scissors. If you live in a town anything like mine - If someone you don't know walks at you with a pair of scissors - you turn around, square up to them, look them straight in the eyes - then drop to your knees begging for mercy whilst you wave your wallet above your head. It the clicked that I had paid him to cut my hair - which he proceeded to do.

At the end, I put my glasses back on to look in the mirror - and was surprised by the total stranger looking back at me. Twenty-three seconds later, it became apparent that I was looking in the wrong part of the mirror - and that "stranger" wasn't me - but the sixty-four year old lady sitting behind me having a blue rinse. As I re tuned my eyes on the mirror to look at myself, I noticed the one mistake the guy had made. I had said "I would like my hair to remain quite long" - he, however, must of heard "Hello. I would like you to cut a silly amount of my hair off so that even bald men chuckle at me as they drive past in there 2005 reg Nissan Almera's." So, overall, mission fail.

I really hope my hair grows to a good length again soon - It doesn't look good at the moment, So I refuse to talk to it until it does what I want and resume a better, longer length.

Anyway, I am about to become a film teacher for twelve to fourteen-year-old students! Tomorrow, I have to start planning lessons. Find out how that turns out Wednesday.

Peace.

P.S. Today, I decided to buy my first bag of pistachio nuts. They are a healthy food that tastes good at a low price. I would recommend them unless you are allergic to nuts and so are prone to anaphylactic shock.