Despite the obvious potential of my hair, I’ve always styled it simply.  Short back and sides as a kid.  Grade one as an adult as the chest hairs gradually began to exceed those on my head.

A hair cut is an occasional treat to try and tidy things up before I inadvertently move in to the mad professor look.  Today was treat day.

One of the side effects of my afatinib anti-cancer drugs is acne.  Alas, while I haven’t recovered the handsome good looks of the teenage Stringy I have returned to the occasional moment in front of the mirror and temptation to squeeze.  I also have issues around my few remaining follicles, many of which have scabbed up.

Enter my barber with his finely adjusted electric razor and my request for yet another grade one.  Five minutes later it’s job done.  Blood pouring out of many of the follicles at an alarming rate and a barber close to panic throwing tissues at me.

Forunately his shop had emptied by this stage so the dramatic effect was limited to just the two of us and I quickly stemmed the multiple flows without needing a transplant.

Maybe I should grow it long and go for the combover next time.  I once met Bobby Charlton.

That Humbling Moment When Somebody Chooses to Raise Money in Your Name