I need to come clean about something. A secret I have hidden from all but my closest family, friends and postman. Darkness personified. Please don’t be too upset with me.
I have a beard.
There you go I’ve admitted it now.
It’s a recent thing. Not as if I was born with it. I was born with a mass of black curly hair. Was almost called Jimmy after rock guitarist Jimmy Hendrix. Yes born with his hairstyle. A few years later I would have been named Brian after another rock guitarist. In the end I was named after an actor who played in many cowboy movies without a beard.
When the beard started our son never mentioned it. Well not until he told someone working at a ticket office that his dad was trying to get a job with ZZTOP.
Trust me it’s not that long….
I understand the technical term is a short beard. A number 1. Rather aptly I had to re-type short as my first attempt replaced the or with an i.
It’s funny in the 17 years I was with my partner the subject of beards only came up once. That was on a French TGV speed train. So I don’t know if the beard would be fondly stroked or would produce a Paddington Bear like stare followed by the words “shave it now”.
Is it time for the beard to go. I’ve decided that I am now even less likely to be mistaken for George Clooney.
It’s never going to happen. Take George’s beard and transplant it on the back end of a Honey Badger. That’s what we are dealing with.
So maybe it’s time to say goodbye.
But our son is now not keen to say goodbye to it. This is an amazing turnaround as a few years back on a French train the guard had a beard. As he walked down the packed carriage our young son stood up, pointed at the beard and shouted “he’s got rabies”. By the look on the guards face that was three words of English he fully understood.
Now as part of his strategy to save the beard he has named it. As everyone knows if you name something it suddenly gets protected status. So what do I do now.
By the way the beard is now name Mr Crimble….
In the long line of parenting skills I’m sadly lacking, hairdressing is near the top. This week witnessed another hair disaster. My son spoke the dreaded words a few days ago. “Can you help me sort out a fancy dress costume…..”. All went surprisingly well until it came to the hair.
A change of hair colour was required.
A can of temporary hair dye was purchased, and carefully applied. Bingo it’s the right colour, job done.
Unfortunately I missed the small print on the can, in particular the lines “apply sparingly” and “apply in short bursts, with only a few seconds application required to successfully dye hair”.
Maybe using the whole can up in one application was a bit overkill…
Well a few days later, multiple hair washes have failed to remove the temporary hair colour from my son. The hair spray also does a really good job of permanently changing the colour of pillows and bed sheets.
I’m betting that the temporary hair colour will outlast the first garden flowers of the year.
I remember many years ago my mum would always cut my hair. I think it wasn’t until I left home that I ever visited a hairdresser for the first time. Looking at the old photographs, my mum did a pretty decent job – always a bowl cut. I also remember my dad always telling me not to worry about my cut hair as “it grows back in a day and a passing man on a horse couldn’t tell the difference between a good cut and a shocker”. That was a dad who was follicly challenged, with really poor eyesight and certainly someone who had never been on a horse.
Now wind on the years and scissor duties have been passed onto me. It’s another parenting duty I can’t remember signing up for and certainly something I’ve never been shown how to do.
It was my son’s idea, he didn’t fancy the 17 mile trip to the nearest hairdresser. He also had great confidence in me!
“Dad how difficult can it be, even for you”
“You can always close your eyes and use the force like Luke and Yoda”
It only took me 10 minutes and the results were truely shocking. It does look like I’ve closed my eyes and certainly that the force has deserted me. The poor lad has walked about in a woolly hat for the last 7 hours. I’m clinging onto my dads words of wisdom and just hoping as my son is back at school in two days. It’s yet another example of how bad I am at this single parenting stuff.
My son has now decided that as punishment for my failings today that I will have to cut my own hair tomorrow. So tonight I’m watching some YouTube videos on hair cutting and then practicing on the dog.