Snippy snippy

As I'm sure you would have noticed, I hate everything.

One thing I hate more than most, is haircuts.

I got one today which, as usual, resulted in me looking like Elton John.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road (and farewell good looks)

The hairdressers always attempt to give me a homosexual style; sweeping over the fringe, and gellin' up the back.

It doesn't suit me at all, but I guess it looks okay.

The factor not taken into consideration by the hairdresser, is that I'ma lazy turd.

Never am I going to product up my hair.

Never am I going to touch my hair.

So, this odd style sits flat on my oddly shaped head.

Now, rather than being Elton John's lovechild;

I look like Boris Karloff's incarnation of Frankenstein's monster.

Sitting in that chair, under the gay little apron (henceforth known as a gaypron), with my hair wet and combed over, I feel vulnerable.

If I were to be attacked by a minion of my nemesis, how would I be able to counter-attack?

That chair.

Its emasculating.

Like rather than cutting my hair they are cutting, well you know…

And the hairdressers can sense this.

Like a dog, hairdressers can smell fear.

So, they feel it necessary to spray a little water into my eyes, or blow-dry the crap out of my face.

The cruel, heartless twats.

I don't like talking to hairdressers and yet, for some reason, they want to know every detail of my personal life.

What school do you go to?

How old are you?

Doing anything rad today?

All of the above can be answered with two words.

Piss off.