Haircut 100 Peaks Bomb-track
Phew! Just returned intact from another stressful trip to the Barbers. I didn't look in the mirror once whilst the bloke was hacking away at my hair, and I've still not checked it out, having returned home - I seem to have a slight haircut neurosis going on.
Sitting in The Chair, watching the flecks of grey and black fall onto the blanket wrapped around my neck, I came to the realisation that I am a lot less grey than I was whilst living in London. I'm sure that my head used to be the epicentre of a blizzard of white when the Discount Barbers on Greater Russell Street set their clippers on it.
Maybe its that the (admittedly low-level) tensile strains running through the bedrock of my life have been well-lubricated by me having settled down to become a domestic god.
Or maybe its the removal of that low-level anxiety generated by the prospect of being unknowingly dirty-bombed on the Tube.
Or maybe all of the grey hairs have fallen out due to old-age, damn them.
Although I'm not ruling out the possibility of a reversal of the Leland Palmer syndrome (lawyer in the town of Twin Peaks, Washington) - having moved away from a possibly haunted house in Stockwell (well, I certainly heard bumps in the night, didn't I Gill?!), my possession by murderous spirits has ceased, and my hair has changed from white to brown. Coincidence? I think not.