It was only a couple of days ago that I learned about Bob Flowerdew’s hair. I’ll never listen to GQT the same way again. Not that, er, I ever did listen to it in the first place.
Speaking of which, I’ve almost never had remarks about my long hair in the UK, although I don’t remember a holiday in France or Spain without someone mentioning it. In fact the only place in Britain that I’ve ever received any comment on my hair has been… here. Witney, where tonight they’re probably gonna party like it’s 1949. Nothing major, mind you, and also both times weirdly from teenagers, in that teenagery hushed way where they can’t quite believe they’re daring to say it. Personally, I blame the discriminatory nature of personal grooming policies in schools. No, really, I do.
Entirely unrelated to all this – honestly – I’m planning on some kind of trim this year. Nothing drastic: at best, I’m likely to get rid of this rather tired rat’s tail in favour of something I can’t quite tie back any more, but no shorter than that. If I were being complimentary – of myself – I’d say I was going from David Beckham to Jim Morrison. In the long run, of course, the last thing I want to do is end up at the terminus of Francis Rossi. The last thing anyone wants is that.