Things you can do when your hair has been reduced to stubble:
a) Stare at people on trains
b) Dye the tufts left sticking to your scalp red in order to worry your parents
c) Be mistaken for Tom Cruise
As I am tragically not a closetted gay midget, the last option isn't open to me. I have a fourth option too - fielding questions about the mysterious scars.
I have two mysterious scars that are now clearly visible through the fuzz. Their causes vary from a crash in motorcycle racing, or sustained while attempting to rescue an adorable kitten from a tree depending on the audience.
The actual cause was far more mundane. I was about 6 and tanking down the road on my bicycle. I turned to talk to a friend following behind and turned back just in time to hit the truck that had inconveniently parked by the side of the road with my face. I broke the poor chap's brake lights with my head.
And then, 2 weeks later, I did it again. Same truck, same brake light.
As a small child, I took great delight in my injury. I attended the school fashion show, garbed in 70's psychadelic Scooby Doo pyjamas and a white bandage around my head which these days would attract more attention from the trigger-happy elements of the Metropolitan police force more than anyone else.
Far more satisfying was when the stitches were removed. The thoughtful nurse let me keep them as a souvenir, obviously having not had much experience in the unpleasantness of little boys. I took great delight in showing the bits of thread replete with scabby bits of decaying flesh to anyone unfortunate to be nearby or, better still, eating lunch.
A charming child.
My mother took the awful things away (obviously) and I came across them the other day while perusing the family albums for material for the speech I have to give at my Dad's wedding next month.
Keeping baby's hair, I understand. But old stitches? That, my friends, is just wierd...
