Eep

I've just lopped a bit off me yed. And I'm sitting here with a little bit of tissue paper sitting pertly on my bonce stopping the blood. In fact I think it stopped bleeding a bit back, which means I now have a piece of scabby paper to peel off. Hurrah.

See the lifts at work, for reasons best known to God and the architect (that sounds a bit Freemasony), have mirrored rear walls. Well, I was standing in one of them today, admiring my increasingly portly form when my attention came to rest upon what I laughingly call my hair. Now, it's been some time since I got the trimmer out and gave the pate a polish, and I realised that I was moving deeply into dandelion clock territory. I resolved there and then that before the night was out, there would be a heap of golden tresses on the floor, and I would look as properly coiffed as a middle aged fatty with male pattern baldness can.

And so I am. I sit here with a head the product of a combination of number one and zero blades, and I am much happier looking the thug.

For about 18 months now, I have had a thing on my head, just above where the hairline ought to be, up on the fivehead. A small, annoying wiggly agglomeration of hard, dry skin which refused to come off no matter how much I fiddled with it. So tonight I removed it with the razor. Turns out the skin wasn't quite as dry near the scalp as I thought. Hence the claret.

Even after my most incompetent shave, with the bluntest razor, I have never had to apply tissue paper that far north before. Ah well, it'll be gone by morning, and I'll not have an annoying wad of tough skin on me bonce.

Eep

I've just lopped a bit off me yed. And I'm sitting here with a little bit of tissue paper sitting pertly on my bonce stopping the blood. In fact I think it stopped bleeding a bit back, which means I now have a piece of scabby paper to peel off. Hurrah.

See the lifts at work, for reasons best known to God and the architect (that sounds a bit Freemasony), have mirrored rear walls. Well, I was standing in one of them today, admiring my increasingly portly form when my attention came to rest upon what I laughingly call my hair. Now, it's been some time since I got the trimmer out and gave the pate a polish, and I realised that I was moving deeply into dandelion clock territory. I resolved there and then that before the night was out, there would be a heap of golden tresses on the floor, and I would look as properly coiffed as a middle aged fatty with male pattern baldness can.

And so I am. I sit here with a head the product of a combination of number one and zero blades, and I am much happier looking the thug.

For about 18 months now, I have had a thing on my head, just above where the hairline ought to be, up on the fivehead. A small, annoying wiggly agglomeration of hard, dry skin which refused to come off no matter how much I fiddled with it. So tonight I removed it with the razor. Turns out the skin wasn't quite as dry near the scalp as I thought. Hence the claret.

Even after my most incompetent shave, with the bluntest razor, I have never had to apply tissue paper that far north before. Ah well, it'll be gone by morning, and I'll not have an annoying wad of tough skin on me bonce.