I’m not getting into this short hair crap one little bit. I made a dreadful mistake deciding to go ahead with this ridiculous campaign. Looking back on my decision I’m still trying to fathom out what pushed me to go from being a bit pissed in my armchair at 10.30 on a Tuesday night to being sat under the nose of a big boned prol with hoop earrings of such an enormous circumference you could’ve dowsed them in petrol, set them alight and have Evel Knieval jump through them.
The freezing bastard weather that has just descended from the black heavens has made my new fucking haircut even more apparently awful. Lets be honest, cutting hair is literally unnatural, there is a reason it grows, and one reason is to keep ones ears and neck from becoming frozen food.
Riding home last night I couldn’t believe how cold a human neck could get, it made me feel physically sick. Later on, walking to the pub to meet up with Frank in the evening, the second I walked out the door my brain shouted ‘scarf?’ A fucking SCARF! I wore one once in the last 5 years and that was only because it was minus 7 and I had ‘flu, now I need one in the latter part of September. I’m never ever cutting it again; I intend to look like Ben Gunn in a decade, actually, it’s my goal over and above everything, and that includes friends, family, career, the cunting lot.
I’m in charge of the office today, my boss and the other director are out, the latter has a meeting, the former is playing golf which is just cliché. Of course, when the boss is taking a day off everyone takes the fucking piss. People saunter in when they feel like it, fag breaks quadruple and the Internet ceases to become a resourceful tool in favour of a giggling tit generator. It’s not my job to be some sort of corporate disciplinarian but I am in a position to ‘bear things in mind’ should it come to it.
Annoyingly one of those that didn’t overtly flout the lack of wage paying authority was the viscous fat cunt who thinks I’m the Horned One. Since my last expletive laden moan with regard to her fucking presence, she’s moved to the other side of the office. This is obviously preferable to having her grunting a few feet away but, incredibly, she seems just as loud in the distance as she did when she was occupying my zone. I’m not entirely sure how that works.
I am sure, however, that I could get a clean shot from here.
(Haircut: Guy Chadwick = Piqued. Fuck)