I has a fringe
Anyway, perhaps in an attempt to do some nasal offsetting, I got my hair cut this weekend. I want a fringe, I said to Richard the hairdresser. I'm too old for a slaphead.
I had the first haircut of my life at Richard the hairdresser's. I was leetle bald as a baby, so this wasn't till I was nearly four. I had my first bob there, my first boy cut there, and my first perm there (who let that happen?). It caters more for the 'older lady' these days, but the fairly upmarket one. It has cups you can read in the mirror, and proper coffee in them.
I mostly don't get my hair cut by Richard these days, but when I decided I wanted a fringe again, he was the only choice. I spent hours of my adolescence arguing with him about fringe length. He always wanted to cut it shorter, I always wanted it long enough to look through. He knows how I like it, and he knows how it shrinks up when it dries.
I came out looking really quite elegant. The next day I looked more like a frizz-monster with a slightly too short fringe, but it will grow.
This post started with serious intentions, but has turned into four paragraphs about my hair and one about my nose. At least I have the good grace to be embarrassed.