Curtains and bobs aren't what they used to be.

07 December 2009

I used to hate it when my dear old Dad took me to get my haircut. Maybe that is because in London you go in, natter inanely about the weather, discuss whether Les Ferdinand's legs have gone or not, complain about people standing on the escalators and tell Clive he has done a brilliant job as usual (which is always a lie), pay your money, leave and put your balaclava on. In the North it is seemingly very different, where sexy shenanigans are apparently a dime a dozen. I know where i'll be going for a bit off the top and I sure as hell won't be taking Father.

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