I do not naturally have a side part. Naturally my hair wants to divide itself altar boy style, a neat little bum part flanked by Farrah Fawcett (or, since I docked my hair in a fit of break up related pique, Alfalfa) style cowlicks. I am, however, a slavish follower of trends and wearer or thick rimmed glasses, so my genetic bum part had to go. Fortunately I found a skilled hairdresser who instructed me in the care and maintenence of my fringe. She showed me the thing I must do with the comb if I'm not feeling particularly Flock of Seagulls, she cut it so it covers my enormous forehead appropriately. She's more than just a hairdresser, really, she's a fringe counsellor, a side part coach, and I thank her for that. It's an effort, but I'm getting there slowly.

And I have never been more grateful than when, on waking up this morning, my hand automatically went to my head and twisted and pulled my large blonde 'fro into something a little more Sharon Tateish. I didn't even notice I was doing it. I saw a mirror later and was shocked, but pleasantly so.

As an aside, Blockhead cruelly accused me of having emo hair the other day. That is so not true. This beast is mod, motherfucker, mod.

As a further aside I've been really enjoying Shalom Auslander struggling with his not so murky past. I also would have liked to have been raised by heroin addicted prostitute nuns, but clearly the universe hates me.