It's been about a year since I've had my hair cut, I think. I didn't want to have to go to the hairdressers when I had a Hitler moustache, due to the embarrassment at what a hair expert would think of me (and having to look at myself being embarrassed in the mirror) and then in the build up to Christ on a Bike I thought it would probably be good to look as much like a wild-haired holy man as possible. But having got rid of the beard yesterday, it now felt like time to do something about my straggly hair, that has been annoying me recently, getting in the way of everything. Even as I cycled down to Chiswick for my appointment I hadn't tucked it properly into my helmet and it was getting in my eyes. Oh how ironic it would have been if it had caused me to crash on the way to getting it taken off. My own hair, knowing I was going to destroy it, perhaps had decided to kill me first.
I was in two minds about how short to go, but the cycling incident had been the last straw and I had to show my hair who was boss. I had a publicity picture of me from Talking Cock to demonstrate to the hairdresser how short I would like to go. I was going back to 2002. A lot of hair was going to hit the floor.
It was an unnerving experience sitting in the chair, watching the mess on my head disappearing bit by bit. In the harsh lights my hair was looking very grey. In fact it seemed the more that got cut off the greyer I was becoming. How can the hair underneath be greyer than the hair on top? I couldn't work out if I was looking older or younger, because now with a freshly shaved face and short hair I looked boyish, but then I also looked like the before in a Grecian 2000 advert. And of course just looked fucking weird after years of long hair.
Of course with all the blow drying and product that goes on, one's hair looks a bit unreal when you come out of the salon, but I couldn't decide if this had been a good move or not. Was this a signal that I had grown up and become a sensible adult. I was in my suit as well. I knew my mum at least would be pleased. My mum and Emma Kennedy. But I didn't want to be pleasing grandmothers and maiden aunts. I wanted to be turning the heads of 25 year old models. I didn't seem to be doing that at this moment.
I posted a picture on Twitter and most people seemed to think I looked like Chris Packham, which I thought was quite a compliment as I imagined he was about 35, but he is 49. So fuck you all. Others went for Tony Wilson or Pat Sharp or a car crash between Hugh Grant and Russell Grant. Several thought I looked like I had stepped back in time and resembled the me from Fist of Fun, just really old and fucked up. Or maybe the dad of that young man. It was pretty mucn 50/50 between those who hated it (or were afraid) and those who thought I looked better. I think once it is washed and messed up a bit it won't look quite so 90s. Luckily, the hair didn't look as completely grey as it had in the hairdressers and so I think it does make me look a bit younger, but certainly makes me look unrecognisable. My girlfriend who was a big fan of the long locks looked a bit shocked and sickened and said I looked like I worked in the city. All my rebellion was gone. But it must be strange for her, because she woke up with one man and was now going to go to bed with someone who looked completely different. Which might be fun. But not if you're going to bed with an accountant.
It was strange for me, catching sight of myself in the mirror and not recognising what I saw, and also confusing seeing my new picture on my Twitter feed and wondering how someone else was managing to post under my name. We may all get used to it, but if not, it will grow back. Please God, let it grow back. Now I know how Samson felt.
