Lockdown finally forced the hair clippers out of the bathroom cupboard the other day and into the hands of my local shearer.
I mean loving partner.
Not that I'm complaining because you should never do that when someone is running a buzzing sharp blade near your neck.
As evocative as that is - for a sheep.
Truth is I don't mind being shorn.
It takes me back to those innocent childhood, perhaps nit-infested, days when getting your hair cut at home wasn't all that unusual and simply made you harder to distinguish from other siblings.
They called it a bowl cut, and in the midnight hour babe, you cried "Moe, Moe, Moe". From the three Stooges. Because that's what you looked like.
Derived from Medieval days, the bowl or mushroom cut found favour not only in the 1960s, but also the 18, 17 and 1660s I think.
In essence, a timeless style.
And there was an element of that the other day in reaction from certain members of the inner sanctum when all was revealed over a Google Hangout.
"Hack job" was another phrase uttered, but not by me.
Running a "number 1" into a "2" and then a "15" up top to mask any "die back" in the canopy was a big improvement on what had been evolving through lockdown.
Lack of access to hair dressers was always going to grow into that sort of problem.
I'd hate to be someone who actually really cared that much about their hair style.
Having said that, even I had eventually requested some landscaping.
Not necessarily because I favour the short back and sides, but more that it's the only way I know how to describe a hair cut.
The inability to translate thoughts into suggestions makes you realise the physical and emotional burden a hairdresser truly carries.
My barber was certainly feeling it given she'd have to look at her handiwork until Freedom Day, but I'd signed the waiver and was up for it.
If not to tame some of the tangles, then to certainly savour the sensual delights of a close shave. That got unnervingly closer the more times certain gaps had to be revisited, apparently.
Moments of hysterical laughter didn't help. With no mirror available in the shearing pen downstairs in the open air where all evidence of abomination could blow away, it was hard to share in the joke.
Was she laughing with me, or at me?
In the end, you got what you'd get if you didn't use scissors, which both of us agreed was probably for the best.
There were certain geo-tectonic fissures around the skull that might quite qualify as a "blend", or a crop circle. Certainly a tad Shane Warne, circa 1982, minus the blond highlights, possibly screaming 'howzat'.
My brave barber was still wondering about the appeal as the plastic sheet came off.
Not to worry though - I walked. Happy for the tidy up on what was obviously a sticky wicket in a very hairy situation.