What Fresh Hell Is This?

Fionnuala and the kids bought me some new work shirts as part of my birthday present yesterday. Designer shirts no less. I was delighted until I discovered they had no buttons at the wrists. These shirts were no ordinary shirts, no sirreeeee. Instead, they required cuff links, another utterly alien concept to me on my journey through the adult world. What fresh hell was this?

Thankfully they had also included a pair of ‘fancy dan’ cuff links along with the shirts. I awoke this morning, filled with trepidation. I shaved, washed and then started to dress. The shirt was fresh and ironed within an inch of its life. I marvelled at how good it felt on my skin, before glancing dubiously at the accompanying cuff links which sat smirking at me on the bedside table. Taunting, gloating.

The process involves aligning four holes on each shirt cuff before sliding the link through each one. They can then been straightened and the cuff link secured. I had previously thought only Victorian gentlemen wore such instruments of torture. But, no, they are apparently ‘all the rage’ and a ‘must have’ for the man about town these days. What next I wondered. Monocles? Pocket watches? Commuting to work on a penny farthing?

After several failed attempts, and much griping, I managed to secure one of them, without impaling it upon my wrist and hitting a major artery. I twisted and turned every which way, impressing myself with my flexibility at such an early hour. Who needs yoga I thought. Just try and put on a pair of cuff links every morning. Harry Houdini eat your heart out. He had nothing on me. Bring on the chains and water chamber.

I wasn’t allowed to rest on my laurels as number two provided an even more Herculean challenge. It knocked the Gordian knot into a cocked hat as I was now forced to lead with my weaker left hand. Prayers were uttered and curses muttered until I eventually emerged triumphant from the bedroom. If this was a test of my manhood, I was utterly vindicated. I felt like Pinocchio. I’m a real boy. Er….man.

I swaggered downstairs to proudly show off my new found talent to Fionnuala. ‘Not bad for a 49 year old man,’ I boasted until she gently informed me that one of the cuff links was fastened the wrong way round. My testosterone bubble was instantaneously burst, and I meekly allowed her to fix it in a fraction of the time it had taken me to do first place. I felt like a little boy being dressed for school by his mother.

Lunchtime now looms on the horizon, where I was planning a much needed run. I may have to allow myself an extra hour to wrestle with my wrists. Or, alternatively, just throw in the towel and book the rest of the day off. I fear phoning Fionnuala asking for assistance might be frowned upon. No, I’m on my own with this one. Although I might have the emergency services on speed dial, just in case.

I knew this promotion would mean stepping out of my comfort zone, it’s the nature of the beast. Tomorrow I’ll be taking another step into the unknown but, this time, it doesn’t relate to sartorial matters. No, my new job necessitates longer hours so less opportunities for lunchtime running. So, tomorrow I’ll be indulging in the dreaded dawn run. Tune in for more of the same nonsense.

I’m Having A Bad Hair Month

I’m overdue a haircut. This, I might add, is not a deliberate act on my part, for those of you thinking I have opted to grow my locks in an effort to imitate a bohemian writer. No, I’ve just been too disorganised and lazy to walk the five minutes from my office to the barber shop I usually grace with my patronage. Plus, there’s my illogical fear of stilted, awkward conversations with barbers which I have written about in the past.

My hair is therefore at that annoying ‘just too long’ phase. I find myself absentmindedly playing with my fringe as it threatens to submerge my eyebrows, edging evermore towards them. I have now taken to maintaining a ridiculous side parting in a futile attempt to tame a barnet which is threatening to rebel against all known forms of acceptable follicular etiquette. I look ridiculous.

The back is faring no better. My hair is starting to curl as it brushes my neck, reminding me of the disastrous ‘grunge years’ when I thought I was Kurt Cobain and tried to grow my hair accordingly. The few photographs that remain from that dubious period of my life show me scrunching my shoulders in a vain effort to make my hair look longer than it actually was. In a checked shirt, Metallica t shirt and DM boots. Not my best look.

Then there’s my sideburns. When closely cropped and well maintained, I keep a pair as a desperate throwback to my trendier youth. Quite frankly, I’d feel naked without them. But now, I resemble an extra from a Dickens movie. I’m Stephen Whizzlemarch or something like that. All I’m missing is the top hat and surly demeanour towards orphaned children. If I extend them with my fingers I may take flight such is their length.

My morning routine now involves a losing battle with my hair, as I battle to mould it into some presentable shape which won’t scare babies and pensioners. It’s worse on the colder days when I wear a hat to work. I stride into the office and remove it, to be greeted with hoots of derision from my co-workers. I look like a deranged clown and may as well have been atop a miniature tricycle, juggling oranges.

The horror continues, now that I have resumed running again. It’s a sweaty, hot mess. I’m amazed I didn’t cause a crash yesterday as I lumbered through the village, looking like Christopher Lloyd in his Back to the Future days. Thankfully the police did not receive any calls regarding a wacky scientist running amok donned in high visibility running gear. The shame, I fear, would have been too much for me.

So, I need a hair cut. I dream of sitting in the barbers chair and telling him to get rid of it, all of it. A number four all over, the joy of watching my troublesome lockstumbling to the shop floor. It would be a huge weight off my mind. Literally. And well worth enduring ten excruciating minutes of small talk about the weather, local politics or what sort of a season Paul Pogba is having.

I shouldn’t complain. I’m a 48 year old man and have a full head of hair. As well as most of my own teeth. It’s starting to take on that ‘salt and pepper’ look that Mrs Black loves so much. I like to think I’ll turn into a silver fox a la Clooney, looking all mean and moody on the sleeve of my debut best seller. Only time will tell. But I’m the meantime, I need to get to the barber shop. And pronto.

What’s been your worst hairstyle down the years?

Have you destroyed all photographic evidence of it?

What Do You Wear During A Heatwave?

Northern Ireland is on the verge of mass hysteria.

Now don’t be worrying. Aliens have not landed. Godzilla is not lumbering out of Belfast Lough, bearing down upon a helpless city. And, least likely of all, our local politicians have not set aside their innumerable differences and agreed on something. No, it’s much more serious than that.

Today is going to be the hottest day of the year.

So what’s the big fuss I hear you cry? Enjoy it, revel in it, make the most of it while it lasts. But you don’t understand. We live on an island of driving rain, frozen fingers and permanent cloud cover. We wear more layers than the Inuit Nation. We don’t do heatwaves. Our tiny brains simply cannot compute with blue skies and that mysterious yellow orb which is hovering above us. Is it some kind of luminous, heat emitting mothership? Where’s Tom Cruise when you need him?

Social order will break down today. The population will go one of two ways. Firstly there will be the ‘taps aff’ brigade. Gangs of pasty, under nourished youths who will roam the city centre with their ‘taps’ (t shirts) tied round their waists. Flesh will be unnecessarily exposed and some of the worst tattoos known to mankind exposed. Sales of cheap cider will rocket and most of them will wake up tomorrow sunburnt and hungover in a police cell with no idea as to how they got there.

The girls are no better. Navels *gasp* will be exposed and several inches of fake tan and make up applied in order that they might drape themselves on the lawn outside City Hall for the passing world to admire/snigger at. Stare too long and they will greet you with their trademark screeched greeting – ‘Do ye (you) wanna (want to) a picture it lasts longer?’ littered with a few choice expletives. Stay classy, Belfast.

The other extreme are those of us who have no summer wardrobe. We dress like Wildlings the entire year round. The sun may be splitting the rocks outside but we’re no fools. This is Northern Ireland, it could be snowing by lunchtime. So we don our multiple layers and waddle out into the unknown. An uneasy standoff exists between these ‘Day After Tomorrow’ types and the ‘Taps Aff’ Brigade. They eye each other warily. It could all kick off at any moment.

And as for yours truly. Well believe it or not for a man who spends half of his life in running shorts, there’s more chance of Donald Trump tightening gun legislation than there is of me exposing my knees to the great unwashed of Belfast. The most I will accede to is possibly discarding my jacket on the commute to work today. And even then I will feel utterly exposed, convinced that the heavens will open at any moment and I will be shown up for the poor, deluded fool that I am.

It doesn’t stop there. Upon arriving at chez office ‘Air Con’ Wars will be in full flow as rival factions fight tooth and nail for control of the little red switch that offers two settings – Sierra Sauna or Arctic Wasteland. Words will be exchanged and fingers wagged. There might even be a tersely worded e-mail or two. It could end up like ‘Lord of the Flies.’ Except with middle aged men in suits.

This could be my last blog post if social order crumbles as predicted. The survivalists amongst us are already retiring to their bunkers with smug ‘I told you so’ expressions on their faces. If it is then thank you for your support and I’ll see you on the other side. The sun will rise again tomorrow but it could be dawning on a very different world. A world of peeling shoulders and embarrassing white bits. Don’t say I didn’t warn you?

Are you a ‘Taps Aff’ or ‘Day After Tomorrow’ type?

What do you wear during a heatwave?

Beardy McBeardFace – Part One

I don’t have a bucket list but if I ever compiled one I reckon that growing a beard would have been on it. I’ve never had a beard, stubble yes, but never a full one. I’ve always wondered what it would look and feel like. Would I resemble a mighty warrior from Lord of the Rings or Game of Thrones? Or a sad, middle aged man who should really know better.

Fionnuala hates all things face furniture and has always been strongly against the idea of me growing one; anything beyond a two day stubble and she looks at me disapprovingly. She thinks they are dirty but finally relented a week ago and said I could grow one over the Christmas holidays. So it was with much excitement that I banished my razor and shaving foam to the back of the bathroom cabinet. Operation Beardy McBeardyFace was go go go!

There was little to report over the first few days but, as we now reach the week mark, I have become fixated by my facial hair. I have been caught examining it in the mirror. This is bizarre as I normally hate looking at my own reflection and avoid doing so whenever I can. Yet the beard has an eerily hypnotic pull and keeps drawing me back. I find myself stroking it without realising that I am. I even shampooed it the other evening. If this were to continue beard oils and combing may enter the equation. I am like a child with a new plaything.

There are pros and cons to growing a beard. I considered working out how much I would save in toiletries over the course of a year but then decided this was a step in sadness too far. The same goes for the 3.475 days a year I now have to spend on other activities. Like staring in the mirror at myself. Or shopping for beard oils and other related products. The beard is saving me time and money. All I have to do is sit back and do nothing. What’s not to love about that?

The experiment has also reassured me that I do not possess a ginger gene. Being Irish this has always been a concern of mine. Don’t get me wrong I have nothing against redheads. Belinda Carlisle was the first love of my life. I used to stalk Sophie Turner from Game of Thrones around Belfast city centre. And Ed Sheerin and Prince Harry have made it cool to be ginger again; no, this all comes from the darkest recesses of my school days when to be a ginger was akin to having social leprosy; you were a pariah, an outcast to be mercilessly mocked for all the days of your life. Duracell Head, Carrot Top, Ginger Ninja and so on and so forth.

I was tubby, shy and wore glasses but at least I wasn’t ginger. Or was I? Thankfully the beard has allayed any concerns I might have had. Not even a hint of copper. It has sprouted up reassuringly dark apart from a grey section around my chin which I think makes me look most distinguished. George Clooney eat your heart out. Why didn’t I think of this years ago. I could have been modelling for Armani. Not only does the beard turn me into a Holywood sensation but it also covers the many parts of my face that I am not so enamoured with. Everyone’s a winner.

Yes a week in and everything is going swimmingly. When I started writing this post I never envisaged it developing into a two parter. Yet it has. You see the beard is taking over. It has developed a life of its own. It is like an alien life form that has attached itself to my face and taken over my mind. And for all the advantages I have listed above there are as many, if not more, disadvantages. The beard is most definitely not beardier on the other side. Part Two will cover all that so try to contain yourselves.

And no before you ask I’m not posting a photo of my bearded self. Some of you may be of a nervous disposition and I don’t want to scare you.

Men – do you have a beard? What have been your experiences with facial hair?

Women – are you a fan of face furniture? Beards? Moustaches? Hipster goatees?

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑