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:
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| 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:
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| The Combover |
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:
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| The Julius Caesar |
