Tag Archives: rollins

Hair today, hair tomor.. wait, I think I used that before

I’m at a point with my hair now that I haven’t been at for a fair few years now. It curls up at the bottom on the back, which is weird and annoying because sometimes it brushes against my neck and tickles me and… wait… no… I mean… umm… I was powerlifting houses while fighting Nazi bears the other day. Yes. Manly.

Anyway, as those who see me on a regular basis in real life might have heard me saying – repeatedly – my hair is too long. It’s not tenable. The sudden heat has made me realise this bouffant mop needs to be hacked down, lest it continue its growth, spiral out of control and take out Western civilisation as we know it.

But what to do? Yes folks, it’s that blog I’ve done two, maybe three whole times before: the Ian haircut blog.

Choice one would be the simplest and best for a quick fix, especially as I could probably do it to myself at home: the all-off. This would make me look like this:

Except not really. But I can have that thought in my head and that makes me happy. PROS: Cheap, easy. CONS: People think you’re about to immediately fight them.

Choice two would be a visit to some kind of ‘hair stylist’ or whatever they’re called, so they could take the blank canvas that is my thick, beautiful mane and sculpt it into something the beautiful people would deign acceptable to their ranks. PROS: I would be sexy and immediately find a rich wife. CONS: I don’t have a rich wife right now and my normal haircut price of £8 seems a bit steep, so paying more than that makes me want to laugh. Then vomit.

Choice three would be a traditional visit to a traditional barber for a traditional short back and sides with a traditional bit of forced yarning with the traditional haircuttist before paying a traditional low amount of money for your now traditional hair-look. PROS: traditional, affordable, no fear of everything going wrong. CONS: boring, too much pressure to yarn with traditional barber, feel a bit twatty going in there with hair this long in the first place as will have to put up with barbed comments (from barber) about having ‘girly’ hair.

Choice four would be to leave it alone and let it grow even longer, to the point I have silly long hair and look like 2005 all over again. We call it the 2005 Standard. PROS: I have better hair than most girls. CONS: I look like an absolute twat and I want my hair lopped off.

Choice five would be to kill myself. PROS: eliminates all problems with hair growth/cutting. CONS: Mum might be a bit sad for a week or two.

Rogue choice six is to get someone to cut it for me, which I used to do quite a lot back in the day. This resulted in a free haircut with, let us say ‘mixed’ results. I would err on the side of ‘mainly amateurish’ rather than going for a full-on ‘wanky shitballs’, but that’s because I’m kind. Needless to say, it never looked amazing afterwards. PROS: free, makes Mike’s dad think we’re gay. CONS: usually ends up looking… off, not everyone is willing to drop everything to come around and cut my hair for me you selfish bastards.

The choice will be a difficult one.

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Prompted by brief discussion earlier – well, I say ‘discussion’, I mean ‘thing I wanted to crowbar into a conversation because what I say is more important than what anybody else has to say’ – I’ve been thinking about times when I’ve actually been intimidated to talk to someone.

Beyond childhood/adolescence, I can honestly only think of two occasions. Both of the celebrity variety. Both in the last year. Actually, both on the same trip, now I think of it.

Normal people? Whatever. They’re people. If they had a gun I’d be intimidated. If they were made of biceps, sure. If they’re female, yeah, sure. But my point was intimidated by people I wanted to approach. Too terrified of girls to approach them, so the point is moot.

See, normally I don’t give a shit about celebrities. There are people I like, people I dislike, even people I respect. But I don’t care much for the celebrity thing, at least not to the point where I’m going to bother approaching someone for an autograph or photo.

There’s an element of nervousness, certainly, a bit of lacking self-confidence, naturally, and the need to be polite and not hassle someone. I am British, after all. But never intimidation.

Then I met former WWE Champion Alberto Del Rio. I have never  before walked up to a man who seemed to leak such menace. Well-dressed, surrounded by entourage, massive, stony-faced, totally in character – I genuinely felt like a tiny child in front of him. Even though I’m probably taller than him.

He was really nice, of course. They all are.

Wrestlers, I mean. Not Mexicans.

Some Mexicans are pricks.

Anyway, on the same trip we were heading back from LA, waiting to board the plane. I look across the lounge, scanning the faces in the bored fashion I usually do when I see a grey-haired chap buried in a book near the front of the queue.

I carry on scanning the gormless chops of the morons surrounding.

Something draws me back to his face.

He looks up.

It’s only Henry fucking Rollins.

If my bowels were any weaker than they are, I likely would have shit myself with joy at that moment. But they’re strong. And, as it turns out, I was way, way too intimidated by the man to approach him and plant a massive kiss on his dick.

So yeah, there’s that. No idea why I was intimidated by this man:

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It is approaching that fateful time when, yes, I need a haircut. Much as this may shock you to learn, I am not a fan of the haircutting process. It probably shocks you to learn I’ve written about this exact thing before, as I am an unimaginative schmuck with very little going on in his life, hence needing to regurgitate topics.

But I’m going to open this one up to the public vote, rather than just bitch, moan or whatever else it is I normally do. I want you all to decide what haircut I will get. Here, in pictoral form, are the options:

Shaved head

Otherwise known as ‘the Rollins’, it tends to make me look like this all the time. People have been known to cross the road to avoid me when I have this hair. I am not kidding.

Whatever the hell this is

And definitely not just because CM Punk has it and even though I’m 28 years old I’m trying to look like a wrestler.

Short back and sides

Because I’m boring like that.


I am often tempted to bring back the feathered and lethal flowing locks. After all, they were… umm… yeah. There.


I find it amusing how barely-hidden my gayness is in this post.

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