The head-shaving incident

I’ve been asked about the head-shaving incident whilst on holiday last summer (NYM’s not exactly backward at coming forward), and I guess I may as well explain what happened, and why. It’s a little embarrassing, which is why I‘ve only made passing reference to it to date. It concerns two rather lovely Scottish sisters, who we met in Tenerife the summer before last and hooked up with again this year – I think they took pity on me first time around, as I was the only single Dad in the hotel (that's it in the photo), so they took me under their respective wings and proceeded to get completely pissed with me every night. Oh, and we also sunbathed together, went shopping together, ate together and went out sightseeing together. We didn’t fuck together, although this year we were a hair’s breadth from doing so (well, only one of the sisters was involved) but in the end we both thought better of it. Mind you, the sexual tension spiced things up a bit, and made it fortunate indeed that Speedos are no longer acceptable attire around the pool!

Anyway, after a few days of arriving there this year, I was lying on the bed one hot afternoon, trying desperately to get over a raging hangover from our drunken escapades the night before. My eight year old daughter, “O”, came up to the room to have a nap with me, and started stroking my hair as she likes to do (and as I love her to do). Suddenly she shrieked “Eeuuw, Dad!!” and jumped off the bed, which lead to much flapping around on my part as I thought I had some kind of equatorial insect caught in my hair. However, it transpired that a patch of hair on the side of my head had just… well, disappeared. And it had happened in the space of a week, because I’d had my hair cut quite short the day before I left, and a panic call to Russell (hairdresser) had quickly confirmed that all had been fine at the time.

To cut a long story short (nice pun, eh?) we had many an alcohol-fuelled debate on the subject (me and the sisters, that is) and discussed the merits or otherwise of a complete head-shave. One day/night – they were blurring into one by this time – the lot came off, leaving me with a dark brown face, a completely white head, and a mid-brown patch on one side. Attractive? I don’t fucking think so! And it was worst of all in the restaurant in the evenings... it felt like every single eye was focused on my head every time I got up from the table to go to the buffet, or walked to the door after eating. The sisters, of course, thought it was completely hysterical, and took lots (and lots) of pictures. With and without bandanas, caps, and sunburn.

From that moment on, they called me Patch, and in fact still do (they had been calling me Zippo because I was so protective over my cigarette lighter, but that’s another story). The good news is that all of my hair grew back… apparently it was stress-related although I wasn’t under any stress at the time, so that’s a bit weird. And that’s how I met and befriended the Scottish sisters, the subject of my previous post. I’m seeing them over Christmas, all being well, and the various kids can hook up together again whilst the adults behave like… well, kids.

I feel much better for that. Thanks, NYM… Oh, and I should add that our debauchery was limited to late at night and the early hours of the morning... we all had children with us, so had to maintain a modicum of normality during daylight hours. I think it was just as well, because we'd barely have survived otherwise.