Splitting Hairs

You know when it's time to get a haircut when EVERYONE is commenting. And they really are at the moment and even I'm beginning to get the message. I don't look too close in the morning mirror because I'll have to see the evidence.

Some people are good at haircuts. I suppose it goes back to schooldays. There were some kids who had their signature crop sorted when they were eight or nine and have never looked back. . We had this mate Bristlehound who had the Number One all the time. His dad must have done the Skinhead Moonstomp on the kid every morning with the clippers, and he grew up one of the coolest dudes in the universe.

Then there were the girls. I remember a few of em had fantastic long hair at the age of eight and when I lost track of em at seventeen they were the hottest chicks, with hair better you see in the ads. Of course they did the dozy married woman thing - as soon as they'd got back from the Costa Blanca honeymoon they got the scissors out. Snip. Snip. Ordinary.

The signature haircut thing eluded me totally. Never got it figured out. Every barber I ever stepped in was either a germaline smelling throwback to Teddyboy days, or a shrine to Duran Duran. I came out looking like Oliver North or the drummer in Motley Crue.

I've done the lot. Had more hairstyles than David Beckham. Whitewalls, crewcut, spiked, shaved, dyed, pleated, dreadlocked, brylcreemed, quiffed, sculpted, the works. Never had the same do twice. Still the same today. Can't make my bloody mind up form one week to the next.

The only thing that's stopped it growing right down to my backside is that I'd get absolutely nowhere looking like that at work. So I've played the game for a while and fell into the barber shop habit - usually before home games on Saturdays. Never looked any good, but it got me by.

Some mates always looked the dogs bollocks - had themselves real style, topped by a barnet that never seemed to change. While my hair would look neat for maybe three or four days, these smooth gets would look like film stars every day of the week. The babes always fell for it - and I always got to be the patsy down the club as they disappeared into the night with a grin and the totty de jour hanging from their trousers.

I should have picked one and stuck with it. Like my old mate Dan who had the same do for years - so long in fact that he ended up the height of fashion all over again - Noel Gallagher's long lost brother. Or young William, who got his idea from the old TinTin books and never looked back.

A jaw dropper was bumping into an old girlfriend recently at a friends wedding. When we were an item she had this cute thirties style bob and a real lively bobbysoxer way about her. Now things didn't work out, but blow me down if nearly fifteen years on she didn't look exactly the same. Everybody said so. Age certainly didn't wither her one jot. And that cute haircut - exactly the same. Not a kiss curl out of place. She didn't recognise me of course. I had to go up and fight through the blokes to say hello.

Mind you - I got lucky with our lass though. She's one of those former kids with fabulous hair I was telling you about. Grew up into a walking Vogue cover, and here she is with her gorgeous long red curls looking just amazing.

And here I am on the edge of looking like a total tramp, and I still don't know what I'm going to walk out of the barber door looking like. Dragged through a hedged backerd as per usual I'll be bound.

Blogga.