Having long hair isn’t a decision I made, it just is. It’s as much a part of me as clouds in the sky or leaves on a tree. I know I’m fortunate that the gods of bald haven’t waged war on my follicles, so as long as they stay well away from my bonce and focus their attentions elsewhere I shall remain cranially hirsute. But last week I began to question the very essence of my self after concluding that short hair would make my life considerably easier.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been at these unfortunate crossroads. After some twenty years of long hair (from teens to thirties) I found myself in a barber’s chair after accidentally setting fire to one side of it trying to light a chillum with a Zippo. I could’ve easily just had it trimmed back, it would’ve been back down to my intergluteal cleft in less than a year, but the temptation to see what it looked like a bit shorter (then unintentionally shorter still after barber number one made me look like Charlie Chuck) was too much for my then fried brain to dismiss without enquiry. I regretted my decision instantly.

With a large aspect of my alternative self literally cut-off I was reliant on my strength of character to maintain its identity, possible yes, but a large part of me felt as if its cover had been blown, and in more ways than one. In a public space, for example, long hair allowed me to cut the world out by simply nodding forward, now I felt horribly visible and exposed, like in one of those dreams when you go to school without your trousers

With the little fella at almost 14 months old my long hair has taken on a new role. It exists as a toy, an alarm clock, a place to deposit crushed foodstuffs and, on one occasion, some shit (his not mine). Quite obviously none of these things are positive, even if one can’t help smiling at his shrieks of delight as he pulls out another handful of my hair. Until recently these negatives haven’t sufficiently aligned to form a cohesive pathway to a hairdresser, but I have found myself wondering what sort of haircut would still allow me some essence of my metal incarnation without having the actual hair to back it up, as it were. Quite obviously a grown man -a grown, married, middle-aged dad- shouldn’t be having these sort of dilemmas and I’ve little doubt the less imaginative would simple cast it all off as some sort of midlife crisis but that’s absurd, I had that when I was in my twenties, it started suddenly at 21 when I learnt that Arthur Rimbaud never wrote a word after the age of 21 and ended abruptly when Kurt Cobain committed suicide. I stand by my opening sentence, it just is.

That said, it’s one thing for me to have this hair-thing going on and another entirely to impose it on to the boy. Last week I was required to cut a little hair from his fringe because it was rapidly approaching his eyes; the better half said that he should have it all cut back because it makes the hair stronger in later life. I was horrified, he’s got actual golden little curls that fall over his collar and tumble around his ears, his hair is soft and beautiful and, well, only a monster would dream of cutting it. Then I noticed it was full of yoghurt, little bits of apple and biscuit and that his hair was actually glued together in places from food.

I guess this is the parental paradox, changes happen at two completely contradictory speeds, slow enough for you not to notice, for example changes in weight, height or, in this instance, hair, or lightning fast when you suddenly realise that something is extraordinarily different, and probably has been for a while. ‘His longer-than-I-anticipated hair is matted with foodstuffs! Again?’ That sort of thing.

Anyway, enough is enough. I need to man-up and straighten all this out. It’s with a heavy yet practical heart I’ve come to a decision, we’re both going to visit the barbers. I mean, it’s not as if he can go on his own and I’m guessing the barber is the best place to take him for a haircut.