I have just cut my hair. That is to say, I, wielding scissors, have just cut my hair. I now look like Oliver Cromwell. Which wasn't the desired outcome.
Of course, you will say, you could have visited a no-Cromwells-allowed hair-sculpting palace. You live within sauntering distance of no fewer than six such establishments, patronised by the lustrous-locked foxettes of Leichhardt.
To which the answer is, no, no, I couldn't. I am utterly at the mercy of a protestant stinginess ethic, so aggressive in the case of hair-dressing that I have seen a professional hair-dresser once, and once only, in all my one score and eight years. Here I'd like to thank my sister, Mlle. Kirsten von Harlot, who kindly forked out the dosh for that singular experience.
Update: have now cut my hair again. I look like Joan of Arc. Have done such a splendid job of it, I'm thinking of setting up shop: "Harlot's Hair Removal Services" (or possibly, "Clip Joint", which would go nicely alongside "Hip Joint", my nightclub for seniors).
If anyone needs any hair, there's an enormous pile of it on my bedroom floor.
And if anyone has any ideas about what motivates a lass with a perfectly amicable relationship to her coiffure to suddenly hack thirty centimetres of it off, please write to this address. Until you do, I'm going with the inverted Delilah Complex theory.
Bon soir, mesdames.