LETTERS FROM LOCKDOWN
Every day is a bad hair day It’s not just Covid-19 that’s grown out of control
My hair just squats there, all big and dark and heavy, like an enormous Russian hat
As I believe I may possibly have mentioned on one or two previous occasions, I’m quite pleased with my lockdown beard. At current rate of progress, I reckon I’m only two weeks away from free lifetime membership of CAMRA.
The thing that worries me, though, is this. My hair.
I mean, what am I supposed to do with it? The barbers might not reopen for months. And until then, my hair’s just going to grow and grow.
Already, it’s creeping down the back of my neck, and over the top of my ears. It’s as if my head is some rickety old wooden shack, being slowly but remorselessly engulfed by ivy.
But what do I do? I can’t shave it all off. With this beard, I’d look as if I’d put my head on upside down. But shaving off the beard as well would be no good either, because my face is so chubby and round. I’d look like a football made of ham.
On the other hand, I can’t leave my hair to grow, because it’s so thick – and if you leave thick hair to grow, it becomes impossible to do anything with it. It just squats there, all big and dark and heavy, like an enormous Russian hat. Uncomfortably warm, too. Like there’s a cat taking a nap on your head. I couldn’t wear an Alice band. I’d look like a bearded schoolgirl. A ponytail? Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons. Man bun? A homeless Harry Styles.
Apparently, some men have resorted to cutting their own hair. I tried that once, when I was eight. Never again. My hair looked as if a goat had started eating it for breakfast, and then lost interest half way through.
Tell you who’s sitting pretty right now. Bald men. No such neuroses for them. Oh, how the tables have turned. Should the Government make us all wear masks in public? I’m not sure. The masks might lull us into a false sense of security, and make us think we don’t need to bother with social distancing any more.
In the supermarket the other day, there were two women merrily strolling the aisles together, chatting and laughing, distancing be damned. Both had masks – but not even over their mouths. They were wearing them round their necks – as if the mask were some kind of magic amulet, and the virus an evil spirit it had the power to ward off. Just realised something. A month ago, the Government announced it was sending a text to everyone in Britain, ordering them to stay at home. Yet all these weeks later, I still haven’t had it.
Maybe the rules don’t apply to me. Might go and sunbathe in the park, see how I get on.