Morning found me leaving the flat armed with a bag containing a mirror and an electric razor. I tried this the other day but was stymied by the shaver telling me it had 40 minutes of charge but actually only having 40 seconds. This time I had charged it all night. I hit the heath meaning business.
The light isn’t great in Mel’s bathroom. Small animals making nests on The Heath will likely be glad of copious amounts of shorn off beard blowing around. I don’t want to have to clean up the carnage from any indoor attempts to trim my beard – It’s made out of razor wire. And over the last few weeks I’ve been slowly transforming into that well loved figure Mister Razorbeard BadgerSanta.
With the summer heat it’s getting unbearable, and knowing as I do that it takes a fortnight of lack of attention for a new one to sprout I thought I’d trim the hedge. Then at least I can eat without having to wash my face afterwards. Here I am, at the beauty salon.
Tristan made himself a mohawk a few weeks ago. Lots of people have been experimenting with topiary. It’s a good time. I thought I’d follow the grey hair line and give myself mutton chops and a great big handlebar moustache. I thought it might be a look I could sport for a week or two just for fun. Maybe I’d look like some sort of theatrical impresario from the old days when they’d set animals on fire, cage weird looking people and accidentally kill themselves in great big yellow cannons.
I look like I should be wearing shorts and sandals, earnestly selling vegan Blancmange from the back of a tricycle in Shoreditch with my hair in a topknot.
Eventually I’ll end up clean shaven, but what’s the rush? I’m just as employable bearded as unbearded – so long as I know what my agent has pitched me for. In this magical time where nobody really gives a fuck about appearance I can experiment with looks, if for no other reason than that it’s fun to do so. Tomorrow if I get up in time it’ll be cavalry whiskers. But then I have to start buying razor blades again to keep them looking sharp, which is the whole reason I have a beard in the first place. There’s a reason why all the razor blades in supermarkets are in security tags, and the reason is that they’re MASSIVELY OVERPRICED.
Still. Maybe time to start thinking about cosmetic things. At some point in the not too distant future there’ll be acting to do that doesn’t just involve talking into a microphone. Not just another Tempest, although that’s confirmed now. Lots of lovely stuff, yet to be known, yet to be understood, piling into my life just after solstice. I can smell it.
On which subject, The Hampstead Butcher took back and replaced my rancid rib-eye immediately. I would never normally have brought something back but it went off QUICK. Charlotte advised me to do it, and I’m bloody glad I did. Expensive things, Rib-eyes. And from next week I’m off meat for a bit so I’m having a frantic last hurrah with the lovely things I really care about in the meaty world. Steak and lamb chops. Omnomnom