Cutting your own hair is an act of supreme risk, rivalling that of poking an angry tiger with a stick after being smeared in antelope meat or showering with a toaster. In this last instance, the coiffeurial result may often be the same.
For flancers of the male persuasion, the risk is somewhat less, as most ‘trendy’ gentleman these days like to wear their hair as if it has been cut with a knife and fork by a blind, thumbless imbecile anyway.
For the ladies however, very bad things can happen to their head, when, in the midst of Murder She Wrote (see post.40) they decide that they can no longer stare at Jessica Fletcher’s nasty brooches and decide to distract themselves by investigating their split ends.
The search for a cutting implement begins with a poke about for some very sharp scissors. And often ends with the scissors being liberated from the sewing kit out of christmas cracker.
It starts with an innocent fringe trim. After an initially promising start the flancer will attempt to emulate the professional finger motions seen used by the likes of professional hair-changers and end up looking like Dave Hill from Slade:
Or Mr. Spock:
Alternatively, the flancer will start on the back. And after a few minutes trying to work out the angles, taking into the account that they are working backwards in a mirror with scissors from a christmas cracker sewing-kit, they will eventually resemble a young Paul Weller:
In real boredom-filled moments, the flancer will attempt something more ‘creative’ and end up with the exact same head furniture as that seen perched upon an Eighties teenager in their passport photo:
A colleague will enquire: ‘um…did you cut your own hair?’ and a hat will promptly be bought and worn for sixteen weeks.