Get a haircut boy!

Let's face it, I get bored. Not all the time, but I will, in time.
I've worked in banks, offices, sales offices, retail, factories, warehouses, food production, driving, call centres. Everywhere and anywhere- except for working with animals and children.
The longest I've spent in any one job is about five years. That would have involved doing the same job for the same firm but in several different locations.
Since I was made redundant from retail management in 1994, I've worked mainly as a temp, except for two jobs where I started as a temp and was taken on as a permanent member. Even then, I've only considered my position as being temporary.
I'm not workshy. I'd rather be working than not working. I can turn my hand to anything. The reason I never pursued a more active musical career was that I disliked the downtime, the time between musical jobs. I also disliked the uncertainty of whether I would be earning or not. The bills always come in on time, but gig money didn't.
And I do have my own comfort zone. I can get comfortable very quickly. And get bored eventually.

"What do you call a guitarist whos girlfriend has left him?"

"Homeless"

That's not me.
Back in the sixties I was always being pulled up about my appearance. In banking it didn't matter how thick you were, as long as you turned up everyday, were never late, kept your hands out of the till, and were smartly turned out. I was OK, except for the last one.

It's just alien to me. Oh I do scrub up OK if I make the effort. It's just such an effort. I'd stay in bed until the last possible moment, not knowing if I had a clean shirt. I'd wear my jeans until they'd moulded to my shape, and then keep wearing them for a few more weeks. And as for my hair....

I hate barbers. As a child I was frogmarched into the barbers by my mother. I'd be sat in on a plank acroos the arms of the barbers chair and she'd order a short back and sides. No matter what the weather was outside. My hair had just grown long enough to protect me from the cold wind, and two minutes later I'd emerge freezing into a howling gale, my neck exposed to the top of my head. I hated haircuts.
Along came the Beatles and all that changed. I styled (ha ha!) my fringe so that it covered my acne (and thereby making it worse) and tried to avoid being noticed by the school prefects who could order you to have a haircut or face detention.
Eventually I was free of the tidiness gestapo and ready to join the world of work. Alas, they were as bad, only you didn't have to stay behind after work and write lines. Why the fuss? It's only hair.

One evening I cut it all off using a pair of kitchen scissors. And they still didn't like it. So I let it grow again. I did visit a hairdressers once. I didn't know how to explain what I wanted so I didn't get it. After a few years my hairstyle evolved into a "short on top, long at the back" sort of extra long mullet. By then I was working in Northampton at the brand new Telfers meat products factory. I had to wear a hairnet in order to go into the factory, and my hair was too long to fit into the net, so I reluctantly cut it back.

A few years later I found a hairdresser I got along with, and in common with Kevin Keegan and countless others, I had a perm. I'd wanted one ever since Eric Clapton had his hair permed as an act of homage to Jimi Hendrix. The lead singer of the folk collective "Captain Swing" that I was a member of had a huge ginger afro. Afros looked cool. I wanted one. It could have been worse. I could have had a mohican. They first came into prominence in the very early sixties, but didn't catch on until it became part of the official punk uniform.

I never had a DA. I was just too young for rock 'n roll.
I never had a mohican. I was too old for punk.
But I had a perm
And a mullet.

When we moved back to Northamptonshire after living in Somerset for three years, a young hairdresser used to call around to our house to cut our hair, and continued to do so for the next twenty years, so my hair was nondescript, except for when I had a no2 crew cut. Just the once. I let my hair grow again after that.

I was asked to help out at my wife's place of work about five years ago. I'm still there. On my first day on reception, I turned up booted and suited, wearing a tie. My boss, like me an aging hippy, looked and asked me not to wear a tie again, as it showed him up.
That's one of the reasons why I'm still there five years later.

On a whim, and just to show that I still have hair to grow, I decided to let my hair grow when on holiday back in 2007. My hairdresser trimmed it a couple of times but I'm letting it grow. There's not much of it but I'm not planning to cut it off just yet. I'll cut it when I want to.
I'm having chemo for leukaemia at the moment. They warned me that I might lose my hair. I haven't so far, so that's all the more reason to keep it. A flag of defiance if you like.
Or a plume of defiance.
Or a ponytail.