Three months ago I was badly clippered by a cheap barber. He created a gap of about a centimetre between the top of my ears and my hairline. I asked for a grade four; he gave me a grade one. It may not come as a complete surprise to learn that the appearance of tall skinny guys is not much improved by a close crop. I emerged from the barber’s neon-lit establishment looking like a smackhead who had just joined the army.
I vowed to visit a proper salon the next time I needed a cut. Which is a different kind of embarrassment: it’s impossible to avoid the blow-drying and the straightening. It only took two days until my hair reverted to wavy normality, but for those two days I wanted to beat myself up every time I saw my reflection.
So, to cut to the chase, this David Mitchell monologue resonates with me.
David Mitchell is evidently a good name to have if you want to achieve something. I’m reading the the latest book by the other David Mitchell: The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. I’ll leave the book-reviewing to the pros, but if you like fiction, you’ll like David Mitchell.