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Cartoonist Diary---Lock-Down Hair


Today I learned a valuable lesson: Never play a game of ‘I wonder what this one does?’ with a set of hair clippers.


But that is today. Earlier on I was still as an innocent to this valuable life lesson, and seeing as the Kalashnikov Kid had gone upstairs to find a pair of scissors, she had left me with a set of electric hair clippers with add-on's that had ‘3mm up to 9mm’ clearly embossed on their individual surfaces.


It was but a moment of madness that saw me deftly clip on the one marked 3mm and in a moment of ill conceived experimentation, the switch was buzzing and a strip of hair measuring eight inches long was falling gently to the floor with my look of amazement only inches behind it.


My mouth made an ‘Ooops’ shape as the hair landed with the finality of a bad idea. My brain, never my greatest ally when having to deal with the right thing to do, urged me to continue, just to see if the first one was a fluke.


It wasn’t.


Now I am not a child, I am a man of a certain age who many would say, should know better. I am, as I have mentioned many times before, someone who is able to legally run with scissors, but it would appear I still need adult supervision when it comes to hair clippers.


Because by the time the Kalashnikov Kid had rummaged around in her extensive collection of hunting knives and weapons of torture---or, as she calls them, those dear little mementos from her KGB days---and found the scissors and come back down stairs, I had found four more clipper attachments and had tried them all out.


She arrived into the living room to find me ankle deep in lock-down hair and a guilty look on my face. I held up the quietly buzzing clippers with a look that said, ‘it was their fault, not mine’.


Now some people say that I have a very good command of the English language and a more than adequate ability to use that language with aplomb when writing descriptive prose. But I am afraid to say that even the great poet Wordsworth would’ve been hard pressed to put into words what my head looked like.


The Kalashnikov kid looked at her scissors, sighed, put them down and left the room, having first ordered me not to do anything else and unplugged the hair clippers, just in case there was any ambiguity floating around my head. I stood there with the look of a naughty little boy awaiting the arrival of the head master.


I was worried, upset and largely hairless, and rooted to the spot with a mixture of fear, upset and indecision, and only found the power of movement when I heard the hedge trimmer being fired up.

I would tell you where I’m hiding but the Kalashnikov Kid reads some of my drivelings and I wouldn’t want her to know where I am. Not until either she’s calmed down or the strimmer has run out of petrol.


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All artwork and the written word are copyright Karl Dixon