Scare Cut

Oh what a tangled web we weave... It seems that I've been less than honest and am now paying the price. I blame my hairdresser. She's the one who went on holiday. Had she been here to tend to my follicular needs, I wouldn't have had to resort to someone else's scissors. Depsite my damn near good excuse for straying (grown out fringe + upcoming TV appearance), had I exercised some patience, I would have been spared what can only be described as prison hair. Long story short (excuse the dody pun), I asked for my fringe to be pixied by my clandestine scissorhands. "Like Victoria Beckham?" he asked. "Yes, like that," I replied. To which he added, "Great. Let's just 'reshape' it." Alarm bells should have rung like bastards here. "Reshape" is often maverick hairdresser term for "cut the bejaysus out of it". Regardless, I left him to his own devices, confident he would behave in manner of my long-term tress tender. Alas, when I raised my head to greet my newly shorn head in the mirror, I saw Posh's long lost brother Victor Beckham. It's now two weeks since said incident and my hair is growing in in its normal freakish fashion....wide. So now I have short fat blunt hair. Nice.
If you need to find me, I'll be hiding under the biggest hat I can find for the next two months.

Photo by Brad Barket/Getty Images