That's the word LK began using about my hair. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas, and she said I was beginning to look scruffy and didn't I want to visit the barbers near Peg's house?
Sure, I said, confident that I could cite cold weather, icy roads and Christmas traffic often enough to put that off.
And here it is February 1, and what was scruffy six weeks ago is now - well, you can judge for yourself. I just happen to believe that one woman's scruffy may be another man's Jeff Bridges in True Grit.
Think of me as the movable object who met the irresistible force.
So today I went for my first Tasmanian haircut. No unisex salon this. Whitey's Shearing Shed calls itself a Mens Barbershop, and comes complete with magazines about recreational vehicles, powerboats and cars.
Probably the only surprise is that the shearers in the shed are women.
Rhonda drew the short straw and had to cut my hair. Her task was complex, for she had to please LK who was not even there. But as I was leaving, LK also reminded me of my disastrous haircut in 2009. "Don't let them cut it too short," she said. "Remember, I'm the one who has to look at you." So Rhonda had to A) de-scruff me, yet B) not send us back to the days when I looked like this:
|The War Criminal|
I don't really mind cutting my hair. And obviously I don't mind not cutting my hair.
But I found the longer hair I woke up with this morning gave me a lot more looks than I have now that I am no longer scruffy. Some, I think you will agree, are actually quite attractive:
It takes years off my looks and - in case you didn't notice - effectively masks the fact that I am balding.
Probably the only regret I have about this photo is that I needed a couple of more months of growth for the combover to create its maximum effect.
But even at this length, I noticed many more people were looking at me and smiling whenever I went to the store.
Or consider, the combover's half-brother, the Julius Caesar:
|The Julius Caesar|
This is a difficult style for me to judge.
First, it's obvious that the bald pate is covered and I look, oh, decades younger.
On the other hand, no one has worn a hair style like this for about 2000 years, so I am not sure that people were reacting to me as a cool young dude or an ancient relic.
I would have asked them, but strangely enough no one seemed to want to talk to me when I wore my hair this way. Tasmanians are famous for being friendly and this was quite odd behavior. I can only conclude this is not my best look.
For one thing, it accentuates my athletic nature.
The Lord has blessed me with a perfect body for sumo wrestling.
I am taller than most Japanese, have big manboobs and send spasms of fear down my opponents' spines when they see me in my sumo jock-strappy thing.
Add the fact that it is extremely hard to push me, partly because of my size and partly because my calloused heels work like friction pads on the sumo mat.
The only downside is that quite a few people seem scared of me.
|The Cousin It|
I trip over too many things as it is, and even though this look is particularly popular in a region where sheepdogs are like members of the family, I found it a tad dangerous while walking.
Not to mention quite unhygienic after eating Asian food.
Anyhow, that is all gone now. I'm back to looking like just another old fart whose wife made him get his hair cut.
And old is the key word. When I asked Rhonda how much I owed, she told me $18. It was only when I was leaving that I saw the sign that said this was the price for people over 65.
I thought of giving her the other $6 for the regular cut, but decided that if I was going to look like an old guy I might as well start acting like one, too.