Had my hair cut this weekend. Hardly an inspiring event I know, but afterwards I was in the lift of my apartment wearing my Lonsdale polo shirt and without my specs. The guy who cut the hair just went on and on and on clipping and trimming till there was almost nothing left.
In the lift's mirror I was able to contort my face into a bovver boy grimace - goodness, I was shocked at how "hard" I could make myself look. I was reminded of Ray Winstone on the cover of the Scum DVD.
Later on, on the terrace of the Walvis, I reflected with my friend that I would not wear my Lonsdale / Fred Perry / Umbro tops with this haircut in England for fear of being considered a neo-nazi. The irony is that the guy who cut my hair is Moroccan, and even the cashiers at Lilleywhites in Brussels were arab.
3 comments:
Perhaps you hairstylist secretly hates you, knows how the English feel about Neo-nazis, knows your wardrobe and hoped you would wear an Umbro top while in England, thus getting you beaten up (or at least given strange looks).
It's the only rational explanation.
iPhil
Rational maybe, but your argument falls down on several counts:
1. My “hairstylist” doesn't know I'm English
2.By the next time I go to England my hair will be around my knees. Possibly.
3.I always get indecipherable looks wherever I go
4.er
5.that's it
I think I was just in shock over my new “look.” In the past I always sneered at ueber-gays and their designer labels (while of course wanting to be like them...)
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