Writing a blog affords me the opportunity to get a few things off my chest. The first of these is not a terrifically pressing issue. It’s unlikely to challenge the minds of the world’s greatest thinkers, but I think it deserves some attention.
It’s spiky haircuts.
If you own one, I’m sorry for what’s about to be said, but I think it needs saying. I think it was sometime in the mid 90s that they first started to appear on the heads of Britain’s young men – the Blue Peter studio was, I believe, the place where they were spawned.
Most haircuts trends have the same shelf-life as your average boy band, but not the spiky, messed-up, ‘bed-head’ affairs that are blighting our high streets.
It’s clearly a matter of personal taste, but they just aren’t and never have been for me.
Take the unfortunate young man I regularly come into contact with. He shall remain nameless, if not to save his embarrassment, to spare me from a possible action for defamation.
He makes a monthly trip to one of those hairdressers that look like cocktail bars to have a haircut that cost more than the total annual Dayan coiffure budget.
Mr Teasy Weesy or Vidal Sassoon I aint, but I’m certain they’re having a laugh.
When they’ve done with him his bonce looks as though it’ carrying a piece of fresh roadkill.
The cut is similar to the hide of a dead badger that's been dragged in the wheels of an articulated lorry for 20 miles up the A1.
He tells me that it’s been styled, but I’m not sure.
If this kind of thing was confined to only a handful of people, I could let it pass without a mention. But it's not.
On the Friday morning train from West Croydon to Victoria I counted 20. If it’s got to the stage where I’m conducting my own head counts on public transport it probably means I’m obsessed.
But, as I said in the introduction to this entry, that’s what blogs are for. Hopefully my biggest fan Saul will agree.