I asked for a haircut...

So I got up this morning with a thirst for impulse. Checked my watch: eleven o' clock. The Grafton Barber do a €9 student cut before twelve. After dwaddling for a bit watching One Tree Hill, I set off.

The walk into town proved the perfect length to a) convince myself to get a short and sharp skinhead cut; b) observe how utterly thugish a skinhead looks, and contemplate how ridiculous it could prove; c) worry about the complications of a lumpy head; and d) decide screw it, the beauty about hair is that it grows back.

So I reach the good barber at 11.57. I head down the stairs and, seeing a waiting room of about 12 unchopped heads, tentatively ask would I still be able to get the student cut. She replied in the affirmative, and I took it as a positive omen, in favour of the load-lightening.

So I take my seat, eventually getting my hands on an Irish Times. After about 20 minutes, a young guy comes over, tattoos all the way up both arms and enquires who's next. It's me. So I sit down in the squishy chair and commence the idle chitchat. I tell him I'm off labouring in the sun for the summer, so I wanted a proper, value-for-money, haircut, and suggested a four. He seemed to think this was a wonderful idea.

So after doing the back and sides, I piped up and asked 'Would you go for the four again on top, or maybe a bit longer?'
'Jaysis!' he replied, 'I wouldn't do that. Sure that'd look shite, and it'd grow out all crap. But sure, if that's what you want...?'

Kinda didn't give me much a of choice there, Jeremiah, did you now?

Needless to say, I took the business end of his razor to the max...


... but just on the back and sides. I mean, I'd hate to look 'shite'.