“Hawk’s” the name, “Mo Hawk”

Following an accident with a Remington beard trimmer, the experience having been so good but lacking the requisite liquidity to buy the company, I contented myself merely to shave my hair off.

Ze German (baz’s special ladyfriend) had been charged with a task she had successfully completed once before, namely shaving my hair to a sensible, presentable but above all, low maintenance length.

All was going swimmingly until the shaver appeared to stick. It dragged at my hair and caused some discomfort. Ze German thought the blade had gone blunt. I doubted this and taking it from her, took it apart and advised her to go clean the detachable parts.

Off she toddled with the two disconnected parts; the plastic attachment for keeping a wee bit of hair on my head and the cutting blade which attaches to the spinning doo-hickey in the main shaft which makes the cutting happen (a technically sound explanation if ever there was one).

I, meanwhile, applied my technical know-how to blowing bits of hair out of the main shaft of the device with short, sharp blows.

All appeared in order once Ze German returned and I put the parts back together again. Only that’s not quite what happened.

Ze German set about her task with her customary ruthless efficiency and painlessly gouged a 2-inch wide, 7-inch long furrow into the hair above my left temple. Ze German screamed, stood back and placed her hand over her mouth.

“What? What’s the matter?”, I said. “What are you screaming at, you loon?”

“Oh bazmorningstar”, she said. “You didn’t attach the plastic yoke.”

I had been sitting shirtless in the garden on a plastic chair on a day which rained intermittently in torrents twixt periods of glorious sunshine. It was a typical Irish summers day and in my haste to get the job over and done with, lest another shower should scupper the enterprise, I handed her the shaft with the blade attached but not the plastic attachment for leaving a bit of hair on my head.

Seeing my reflection only in the kitchen window, I laughed. I could only laugh. It wasn’t her fault. Her Teutonic fastidiousness has been somewhat decreased after eight years of living in tweedly-deedly-another-pint-of-Guinness-please-landlord land and she genuinely failed to see the missing part.

It was my fault for hurrying her and for not paying attention to the parts in my hand. The part was still in my hand. I immediately accepted my fate.

One of two coupes-de-cheveux presented themselves; The Dalai Lama or the Balding Punk. I had spent years in my twenties sporting the Hare Krishna look, convinced as I was that I was balding significantly ( I wasn’t – it grew back thicker after having been shaved weekly for about two years), so I decided the Playboy stripe was the way to go.

“Sweetie”, I said. “There is nothing for it only to persevere.”

Chuckling, she set about her task of shearing me like a soon-to-butchered-sheep entered as a last minute reprieve into a ghastly ovine ‘Crufts’.

So, “Mohawk?” you say. “Doesn’t it lend you an air of menace?”

“Don’t old ladies and children avoid you in the street?”

“Aren’t your colleagues shocked and appalled at your unprofessional appearance?”

“Has John Q. Law given you a knowing glance?”

“Shopkeepers coming round the counter to keep an eye on you?”

“Bouncers giving you the heave-ho without even an explanatory word?”

Not a bit of it. I’m Irish. I look Irish; all pale skin, rosy cheeks and freckles galore.

On top of it, I wear glasses, the blue-tinted half-framed rectangular type. I have a double chin, a pot belly and short, squat legs.

In short, I look like a mental patient on day release.

Rafter
baz
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 13:57, 6 replies, latest was 16 years ago)

We need pics please.
Before it grows back.
( girlinthehole, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 14:02, Reply)

/
what she said

points awarded on proof with pics!
(drain_bamaged, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 14:08, Reply)

Technology consistently confounds me
You may have gleaned from the above that even rudimentary machines cause me premature baldness and/or the threat of being committed. Attempting to post a pic will likely give me cancer or cause a limb to fall off.
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 14:21, Reply)

No excuse.
If I can learn to post a picture, then you bloody can.
( girlinthehole, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 14:39, Reply)

Hee!
I just realised that we still have "I like this" for Off-topic posts. I've no idea if it makes the slightest bit of difference, but it certainly deserved a *click* for the newly mohawked Baz.
( Fireflier La la la la, not listening on, Mon 7 Jul 2008, 14:53, Reply)

Hehehehehe

That reminds me of when I used to cut my ex's hair. Every time I would get a worried look on my face and say "oops". And every time, he would fall for it. Ahh...memories.
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Tue 8 Jul 2008, 2:15, Reply)