Thursday 24 September 2020, 21:54 GMT

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I was really excited to get my hair cut last week. Just ask my friends, I'd been complaining about my barnet constantly for weeks on end and frankly I don't blame them for getting sick of hearing the same thing, 'I can't bloody see... This shaggy mane is getting out of control,' over and over again. Still, the only real problem was that I'd not had a trim for a few months. There was no need for a completely new look.
But here's the thing: though I usually get my hair cut at a little barbers in Chelmsford which doesn't deliver perfect results but always comes with plenty of charisma from the blokes who work there, I live in Shenfield and with no cash for a train ticket I was stuck. I didn't even realise there was a barbers in Shenfield! Nonetheless, I asked a mate and was directed towards what I shall refer to as 'Generic Barbers Limited.' The results were somewhat questionable to say the least. Don't get me wrong, the young lady who cut my hair was lovely and never short of something to say. You see I always feel awkward sitting on that chair in front of that mirror silently surveying my hair get shorter and shorter, wondering whether or not the person with the scissors knows what they're doing- so the neurotic in me felt much happier with conversation. What I clearly missed though while chatting about various Halloween plans (or lack therof) was my hairdresser hacking away at my mop, clearly not adhering to my instructions of 'I just want a bit of a trim, really not too much off,' etc.
It was as she finished up and charged me fifteen pounds for her troubles that I suddenly realised what a ghastly mistake I had made by following my friend's advice. Sure, I was able to see just fine, but my hair looked like it had when I was just starting secondary school and I don't know if 'the pre-teen look' is good for somebody just four months away from becomming a legal adult. As I walked home that afternoon, on one of the rare days that I don't wear a hoodie, my head felt very cold and I was made aware for the first time this year that summer was well and truly gone.
And sure enough, my fears were confirmed not just at school, a veritable haven of banter, but by my own mother, who burst out laughing as soon as she saw what damage had been done. That isn't to say I was safe at school of course, oh no. Currently I am being called one of three loving nicknames: 'Baldy,' Karl Pilkington (the bloke with a head like an orange off An Idiot Abroad & The Ricky Gervais Show), and my head of year's name, because yes, you guessed it, he is bald. And of course that friend who directed me towards social disaster won't accept any responsibility.
That said, not all the response is negative. For every 'You look like an extra from This is England,' I get told I look older, or smarter, or that it suits my personality better. I'm not happy with the 'do, but as a pretty optimistic guy I'd like to think by the end of half term and my return to school next Monday my hair will have grown to be a little less embarrassing. But maybe I don't need to be down about the way I look. David has coerced me into having my photo put up onto the website and he's looking for your feedback on the hair situation. Do I look like the smart, sophisticated adolescent we all know I wish I was or should I be rushing back to Generic Barbers Ltd. and demanding a refund Tony Soprano style?

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