Hair. Mine. All of it, everywhere.
Currently, as I may have mentioned, I am the hair stunt double of Miriam Margoyles. Luckily it’s just the hair and not her violent farts that we share. I had intended to get it cut before I came away however things went awry when I came down with a virus that I thought was going to wipe me out for a week, so I cancelled the huur cut, only to recover from the virus within 16hrs or so, and it was too late to reschedule.
Of course, being out in the sun not only means that the rickets are in abeyance but that my hair is having a growth spurt. It’s also humid and my hair thinks that it has a sense of humour so it heads off in any which way so I come home from a day out with what looks like a damp microphone cover on my noggin.
Unfortunately the growth spurt is not just on my bonce, it’s all over my face and beyond. Anyone coming into contact with my legs would fall away bleeding as if they’d walked through brambles after midnight due to what is effectively barbed wire growing on them.
As well as not coming away with a hair cut, or even a hair brush, I also neglected to bring a mirror so the full horror of my facial fur only becomes apparent when I decide to re-enact Lional Ritchie’s Hello and play the part of the blind girl feeling Lionel’s face and come across all manner of werewolvian hirsuiteness under those probing finger pads. I am convinced that the hairy fairy comes in the night and attaches random pieces of brillo pad to my face because I know they weren’t there the day before. I checked, thoroughly.
I was a partial Boy Scout, and was prepared by bringing tweezers (I was more in shock and panic when I thought I’d lost them than when I thought I’d lost my money) and a cheapo razor that went blunt as soon as I looked at it. At least you can see what you’re aiming for with a razor, with your face you need to know where you’re headed otherwise you end up with stab marks all over your face which merely serve as arrows pointing to the black wires that are the enemy.
I should have realised that all hotels that provide a mirror will also ensure that it’s placed in such a way that no real light will fall on it. As a result you’re looking at yourself not only through rose-tinted glasses but with your eyes shut and a bag on your head. Actually, having a bag would be useful.
The harsh reality of your minginess isn’t fully revealed until you’re out in blinding sun and catch a glimpse in a wing mirror of your face and what appear to be spiders legs hanging off your top lip, chins line. Meanwhile anywhere else you’d rather not mention, you can’t fail to notice as soon as your laid out on the lounger – you either have to tough it out or tell everyone your pet tarantula has come to the beach with you but gone all shy and has tried to hide in your pants.
I should have been Boy Scout enough to bring the tweezers to the beach, but plucking your escaping growlers out in public still isn’t acceptable beach behaviour (although, if you’re a bloke, tugging your todge through your trunks is). Meanwhile any conversation that you have is conducted with you attempting to look casual and cover any offending facial area with your hands when you’re ordering a lunchtime plate of chips.
Still, I could just let it all grow and tell everyone that I’m Conchita Wurst’s dad?