I'm hairy. Very, very hairy. Shave my head, and within a week it resembles Marge Simpson. It won't stop, and in this sense, I openly mock bald people.
However: I know when it's time to get my haircut. It is when I am mistaken for a woman in public.
Despite a very recent haircut, this happened last weekend at the petrol station as I went to pay for about six pints of fuel (thirty quid).
"What pump love?"
"Number two, duckie."
Alas, lack of funds mean I am at least two weeks from a haircut - I can either regain my manly, chiselled good looks or starve.
Things came to a head (geddit??) at work this week when I was personally jostled by David "Shagger" Blunkett. Sans dog, the man was clearly out on the pull - having been told by a minder who likes a good laugh as much as the next sadist - that he was visiting the Rub-a-Tug parlour, and not a press conference attended by several hundred journalists.
As hand connected with my tail feathers: "Whoops! Sorry miss."
He's staring at me now as I write this. God, he's in for a surprise later.
Also: Don't forget the mega-vote-o of mirth and woe-o.