31. Loose Ends

No constant theme this time and a few loose ends to clear up.

When I was in Miami having various tests a couple of months before my transplant, I had a haircut. My hair had grown very long as I had decided to have one last go at the sixties, student look and had let it grow long and completely cover my ears. I thought I was looking pretty cool but Caroline didn’t and was nagging me to get it cut.

She got her way when one of the drugs I was taking in preparation for my transplant had extraordinary side effects upon my hair. It started to grow in all directions and it looked quite silly. It appeared as if I were standing too close to a Van de Graaff generator. 

A trip to a hairdresser on Miracle Mile, 15 minutes with an electric razor set at #3 and my hair was tidy once more although I looked like an American GI. I also thought I looked 20 years older but I no longer looked like a clown.

Two haircuts later, back in Prospect Reef, Cayman, Caroline came home with top of the range electric clippers and announced that we would save loads of money as, from now on, she would cut my hair for me. “It’s easy,” she told me. “It’s not styling - just clipping. I did my neighbour’s cocker spaniel once.”

I sat in my wheelchair, in front of the television, watching cricket while she got on with it.

“Oh dear!”

“What have you done?”

“Nothing,” she said, nonchalantly. “Nearly finished.”

There was silence for a minute or so. Silence - except for the buzz of the clippers.

“Do you know what?” she said thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Cutting hair is a lot like golf.”

“Really?” I said. “I don’t see how.”

“Well, they’re both much more difficult than they look.”

That took a bit of digesting but suddenly the penny dropped.

“What have you done? Get me a mirror!”

When she eventually allowed me to look in a mirror I realised that ”Oh dear,” was hardly a strong enough expletive. I had a two-inch wide bald streak right down my head, just off centre, almost an inverse ‘Mohican’.

We were due to go round to Paul’s house that evening. “I’m not going,” I said. “You go. I’m not.”

“Don’t be silly. No one will notice.”

“What!? Won’t notice? My head looks like a lay-by off a main road.”

“You could wear a hat.”

“I don’t want to wear a hat. It’s ninety degrees out there. Nobody on the island is wearing a hat. I’ll stay at home.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll cut it all to match. Then it won’t look odd.”

“Aha, so it does look odd. People will notice.”

I stayed at home. Sorry Paul if you’re reading this but that was the real reason I didn’t come. I hadn’t been out in the sun too long at all.

Hair grows slower when you’re older and it took nearly a year to grow out.

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Further to life in Islington: This morning when I went into “Sweet” for my breakfast, I met a young man who was wearing a skirt! Yes, a skirt. It wasn’t a kilt although I suppose that it was cut a bit like one but it was not plaid or tartan. It was monochromatic, light purple. Of course he was speaking fluent French to the girl behind the counter and that fact cheered me up a little. Perhaps he is French.

When I told Caroline about him she was very excited and was full of admiration, wanting to know its length; whether he was wearing a belt; what footwear he wore and how he was dressed above the waist. When she realised that I couldn’t answer any of those questions, she became exasperated and appeared to get fairly cross, even going as far as to call me, “hopeless.” 

I have quite enough problems with my own clothes and spend plenty of time on my own appearance, like checking that my zip is up, without making a detailed study of the clothes worn by other men.

I know I’ve been out of the country for five years but is this what we’ve come to while I’ve been away?

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Further to the making of tea (Chocolate pastry, August 7th): I read yesterday about White Tea that sells for £57 a pot. It is a tea made with buds and in some cases, very young tea leaves, which are sun dried or dried by steaming – though I don’t really understand how something may be dried by passing water through it. 

According to the article it is brewed at 85°C and never with boiling water. It is said to be good for the skin and low in caffeine and that probably means that it is low in taste too. I think I’ve probably discovered some more of the Emperor’s new clothes. £57 a pot! That guy in the skirt probably drinks it while chatting in French to his broker. I expect it’s very popular in Islington.