The last haircut I had was a fundamentally necessary affair. Six months later, it was getting to a similar sort of stage. Over the last few weeks I can’t think of a time when I’ve actually been happy about the way I look, and while a part of that sensation can probably be attributed to the bit of extra weight I’ve put on that stubbornly refuses to fall off, the hair hasn’t been helping matters. Last Wednesday I decided to tweet my way across Waterloo Bridge – you’re right, that is a watershed moment in journalism – and took a picture of myself halfway across to prove I was doing it, so in hundreds of years when future civilizations discover this path across the long dormant River Thames, they might consider me a pioneer of sorts. The Christopher Columbus of Waterloo Bridge.
That was my intention, anyway. What happened instead is I put a picture of myself looking awful on the internet, and that made me feel dreadfully self-conscious. The odd thing about going bald is that the more hair you have, the more it draws attention to the fact that there are some parts of your head where you can’t get hair anymore. It’s a catch 22 situation. Or a Haircut 100, if you will.*
So in order to feel better about myself, I got a haircut this afternoon. A pretty good one, too. I’ve not been getting too much work done over the last few weeks and the few gigs I’ve had have been up and down, so my theory was that a new haircut might pull me out of this funk and spur me on to greater heights. I also had a spot at a new material night this evening, so every piece of this little jigsaw puzzle was ready to fall into place.
It didn’t quite manage to do that. The jigsaw may have been put together, but it came from a second-hand shop so lots of pieces are missing and the lighthouse has been drawn over in fluorescent marker pen, replaced with a giant luminous yellow cock and balls. While a giant luminous yellow cock and balls might be an even better signal for ships to stay away from the choppy shores than a traditional lighthouse, it’s not what you bought the jigsaw to see.
That metaphor falls apart under close scrutiny, so let’s just look at things properly. I got a decent reaction from some newish material I wasn’t too sure about, so that’s a positive, but a whole chunk of a routine I’d been writing for the last few days – and the main reason I wanted to do this gig, to check that it was as promising as it seemed to be in my head – fell flat on it’s face. It got nothing at all, and that’s as much as it deserved, really. It wasn’t nearly as funny as it felt on the page and just managed to leave people nonplussed. That’s a giant luminous cock and balls, right there.
On the plus side, the haircut went down well and I did feel more comfortable in my skin than I have in recent weeks, so the next time I tweet my way over a Thames crossing in order to achieve long lasting fame, the pictures should cast me in a more favourable light.
The haircut went down well and I did feel more comfortable in my skin than I have recently, so that’s a positive.
* This reference is tenuous at best, and doesn’t really work as a joke. I know this because I tried it on stage, and it failed every time I tried it.
