Inventing a new hairstyle as Little (and Old) Fellas get Covid cuts
THE arrival of a copse of grey hairs springing forth from my ceann last week prompted me to dust off the hair trimmers and consider perhaps the biggest decision of my forties to date: to shave or not to shave.
Shaving my face has become a weekly instead of an every-second-day event lately and with the usual five-weekly haircut missed in March, combined with deep onset boredom, I decided the hair had to go.
One thing I’ve learned during this period of isolation is that I can do a lot more than I thought I could. Stuff has been repaired. I’ve managed to adapt really well to massive change and I’ve drawn up a list of jobs to be completed.
I haven’t actually done any of the jobs, but hey Xanadu wasn’t built in a day!
Back to my self-styling conundrum: would I go for a four all around. But wait there was a five option I had totally forgotten about! Eurkea!
Having consulted a neighbour who is an excellent barber, I opted for a five on top and a four on the sides and back. Having dispensed his sage advice he left me with a long sideways look, no doubt taking in the before appearance, ahead of what would inevitably be an entirely different, Fester out of the Addams Family After look.
His trust (or lack thereof ) in me proved telling!
I watch world news in the morning before work; it’s just the dedication I bring to the job. I set up my hair shaving station on the mantel piece in the dining/toy room and turned on the shaver. In fluid motions I began passing it through my hair but nothing was happening. I had turned on the beard trimmer by mistake.
Round 2: I turned on the hair trimmer and still nothing.
Round 3: It was not on a number. Round 4: I put it on five and started lobbying off the locks. What could go wrong, a little voice in my head seemed to say. “Nothing, of course!” I reassured myself.
Then Trump came on the screen. It was at this critical juncture when I decided to empty the shavings holder part, blowing on it as all professionals do.
While distractedly putting the fitting back in its slot, listening and half watching the news, I had pushed the yoke down to one. I happily started shaving my former fringe, forescalp area only to discover, to my infinite horror, my calamitous mistake.
There, confronting me, was a baby emu scalp, downy fair haired spikes of fluffy nothingness, where semi-flowing locks had once flowed.
I immediately returned the blade to five, then four, figuring that would ameliorate the emerging follicle situation.
My descending, panicked logic then prompted me to change tack and apply a three finish to the back and sides.
The only problem was I couldn’t reach all the way around sufficiently to get the upper reaches approaching my bald eagle spot, which is normally protected (albeit pitifully) with strands of hair.
Off to the children’s mothers with me – a walk of shame as I entered to hoots of laughter. The horror was also apparent on her face as I asked her to finish the job without killing me.
The Little Fella, who looks like Huckleberry Finn, looked on amused. That was until my new hairdresser took the scissors to him giving him what I can only call a Frownge: half frown, half fringe, it’s as if an upturned bowl was placed on his forehead. Can’t wait to see what we make of his young god locks!