I need a bloody haircut. My wife’s been nagging me about this for at least six months or so. Now then. A number two (2) at the back and sides is what I usually go for, followed by a “Leave some on top”. I generally go to Mike’s in Eton Wick. Last time I didn’t go there for a haircut I ended up looking like this.

Haircuts say more about you than anything else. Apart from your mother. Or, in fact, your wife if you don’t get your hair cut often enough.

What should I go for? It’s hard work, it really is. Should it be the copy of the Sun with young ladies showing their breasts or the copy of Autocar slagging off my motor. I could go to my GP instead and read a copy of Country Living.

Nope, I’ll think behave reasonably and wait patiently in line.

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2 Responses to Haircut

  1. Mary says:

    Go and git yer feckin her cut yerr good fer nutin bag a shoyt or it’ll be none a dat derr leg over at de weekend yer bag a bollox

  2. Mummy says:

    Here here Mary, make that idiot twit of a son of mine get a haircut. Also make him get a new pair of corduroy shoes while you are at it. I hope he’s been keeping his room tidy and that you’ve thrown out his large grumble collection.

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