Week 9: The Return of Sweeney Todd

There is something deeply disconcerting about your barber dissolving into fits of laughter on sight after he has administered his best Fresh Trim.

When I say "barber", "best" and "Fresh Trim", I mean "B (for Boy)", "first" and "all over clippers cut".

Does this mean that the long discussions over the potential styling have failed?

"I'm going to make you look like Ronaldo"

"What? You can make my old, grey, thinning hair look like Cristiano Ronaldo? Go for it!"

"No, the Brazilian one"

Waaaiittt a minute, didn't he have a mad hair-cut with just a daft little bit left at the front?

A swift parachute roll out of the chair and across the lawn soon puts paid to that.

We are in the garden, electric clippers in B's hand, old kitchen chair and extension cable providing the comfort and power. Gin (The Mrs, so called because of her love adding the colourless liquid to her tea in place of milk) is supposedly Supervising. If Supervising means sitting on the comfy patio seats drinking "tea", alternating between looking over and laughing and reading your Kindle, then she is Supervising like the best of them.

We settle on a 10mm cut all over, blended down to a 3mm short-back-and-sides. What could possibly go wrong? The trimming begins with the top. Two swift runs of the trimmer across the top of my head, front to back, and the hair is falling away.

It takes five minutes for the barber to regain control of himself and dry his eyes. Something tells me this isn't going quite as I had imagined. But soon enough the top is done.

"How's it look?

I wait again for the barber to regain his composure.

"You have a a McDonalds Cut mate"

"A what?"

"A McDonalds Cut. Because your hair-line at the front looks like a big M"

Nice. So far, so many regrets.

A slurred voice wafts over from the patio. "That's the easy bit done, the back's harder"

B asks for Gin's help. She is to place her hand at the point at which the blending should stop whilst he sweeps the now reduced-height clippers up to them. By Jim it seems to work!

By the time the doorbell rings, B has removed the 3mm trim guard to attend to the bits that need shaving off completely, and with Gin's help, it's "going quite well". The concentration is pouring off of him and the two of them are congratulating themselves as Gin weaves off to answer the door. B decides to carry on to finish the job as his mates are waiting to play GTA with him on the PS4.

Then "Oops" followed by "that bit went a bit high"

Gin returns. "Oh My God!" she says before the pair of them collapse into a pile of giggles. I ask for a mirror.

I'm sporting the new trend cut; the "McAlopecia". McDonalds M from the front, alopecia sufferer from the back.

Still the alternative was to leave it for the entire period of lockdown. None of you would want to sport the Lush Merkin look either.

So, Week 9. A summary:

Did a bit of cleaning because Guilty. Got cross with people who can't follow one-way arrows in the floor in Tesco because Plonkers. Cooked a bit less because Expensive. Drank a bit less because Liver. Cycled a bit more because Fat. Scrubbed Gin down with antibac following her day in school teaching because Germs. Swore a lot more because Bored.

Oh and ordered a Tuba off Amazon because Clap for Carers seems to have morphed into Play your musical instrument as loudly as possible for Carers. Can't have the neighbours thinking there is a dearth of musical talent in this house.

Love & elbow-grease,

Mr H