See now, I'm not sure what I'm actually moaning about here. Is it my hair's fault that I always leave a hairdressers looking like an idiot, or is that down to the inability of the person cutting it? Because one thing is for certain; I always leave the chair looking like either Adolf Hitler, or a fucking choirboy.
Though I wont supply you with visual evidence of its current state (for fear of being eternally chastised), I can reveal that my hair is currently in the latter form of post-stylist butchery. Don't confuse this pious look with the angelic blonde locks of little cherubs you find on bereavement cards or in tacky gift shops (see: my house). Oh no. Far from blonde, I have what some people charitably call a mousey-brown shade. Those people are liars. My actual colour is closer to rat-grey.
Regardless of colouring (I'm sure Ive got a half full can of Dulex paint knocking about somewhere), how difficult is it to fulfil the request of "don't cut too much off, especially the front?" I mean surely that makes a hairdressers job easier? It's like walking up to a bin man and going "don't worry yourself with collecting ALL the rubbish mate!"
I used to think it was the fault of the bargain "4-cuts-for-a-fiver" barbers that I went to as a kid (note that as a child I always wanted a "step" haircut, or to have "Nike" shaved into the back of my head. Shoot me now.) Chris, the barber of old, used to have one eye on his latest flutter on the horse racing, one on the dodgy-diamond geezer trying to flog him a "Rolex", and no eyes on the state of my hair. Though he was right handed, his left hand would wield a pair of Crayola safety scissors, while his steadier right hand would periodically allow cigarette ash to rain down into my horrified eyes.
So I must admit that my new hairdresser is far more proficient in many respects, in that somewhere beyond her "I've cut Doherty's hair" ego, she does care.
Ultimately then I suppose it comes down to one thing: I have got shit, unworkable hair.
The irony is, if I had NO hair, I'd kill myself. Seriously. Probably by hanging myself with extensions pulled from the heads of lucky, fruitfully hairy people. The bastards.