It’s almost a cathartic exercise.
There’s something about getting a really good haircut that beats any prescription filled out for a dosage of happy-happy-joy-joy.
While the scissor-happy pusherman snips, slashes and texturises, and chunks of you fall to the cutting room floor, you can’t help but feel that you’re letting go of old pretensions and hang-ups.
Remember that time you said that stupid thing you said? And when the whole world suddenly shrunk into itself, leaving you oblivious? Now see that single cubist curl, its darkness sharp against the tile, that was a piece of you when you said that stupid thing you said. And now its sheared, excised from the head that carried it, along with the heaviness of memory and the waste of regret.
Gone, along with the billions of skin cells you slough off daily. One month, and you’re brand new, on the outside. And a little on the inside too, if you take your vitamins.


Robbie Williams. Live. Funny. Sexy. Self-Effacing. Charismatic. And So much stage presence, there’s probably still some residual Robbie down at Loftus from Monday evening’s performance. I take no shame in saying I sang along to everything I knew the words to. Some may say I sold myself to the other side, but let me tell you, damn, what a sweet deal it was.