Call Me Egon Spengler.


The roof of my friend Steve’s new Mercedes isn’t high enough to accommodate my hairstyle.

It’s annoying that he didn’t take this into consideration when he bought it. He’s aware of my lofty barnet. I know he was tied to a timeframe and a budget, but he could have shopped around a little longer, or at least spent some money on modifying the ceiling above the passenger seat to fit my quasi-quiff in. As it stands (the situation, not my hair) he’ll wind up with a waxy patch front-left, which is not my fault, but is. I’m not compromising my style to protect his interior.

Having said that, I’ll make a concession. My hair’s recent extra height had led to structural difficulties; so much so that I’d moved up a Silvikrin strength. The additional inches above sea level meant greater wind resistance too; it was like having a drogue parachute above my head. Yesterday, I bit the bullet and had a haircut. I still think Steve will benefit more from this than me. Through being slowed down I was taking in my surroundings. I was more mindful and more at one with nature. Now, I’m £11.50 lighter and five minutes early – and all because he wouldn’t fit a supplementary sunroof. It’s times like this when you learn who your friends are.

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