MY son left Chateau Lockley this morning with a cheery wave, breezing down the cracked driveway every inch a respectable, healthy country youth. He arrived home sporting a silver chain weighed down by a dog-tag pendant with his name etched on it - just in case some kindly soul finds the lad wandering dazed along the country lanes and takes him in, presumably - and a haircut that looks like it's been created by the same people responsible for Farmer Smith's crop circle. I can hardly bear to look, but it appears one side is shaved with the kind of ornate patterns carved into it usually found on Ancient Greek earthenware. In short, Number-One-Son has taken a quantum leap in his quest to be a bad ass American gangsta pimp. I was aware he was getting his hair cut for a forthcoming job interview. I wasn't aware the vacancy was for a crack dealer. Our crazed cat Mifsud (due for a name-change) took one look at the savage hair-do, gave an 'I wouldn't like to meet the owl that did that' glance and ran outside. We haven't seen her since. Julie has told me to go easy on the youth, gently pointing out I had my share of silly hair styles. I don't recall them. "What about the permed mullet in the 80s?" she pointed out. That was different. Lots of people had permed mullets: a legion of country and western singers - and Bobby Ball - can't be wrong. "And the pencil moustache," she added. There's nothing silly about moustaches. "Your's was drawn on with a felt-tip," she teased. Anyway, I didn't have things carved onto my barnet. If Joe had consulted me first, I would've tried to rent out space on his head to prospective advertisers. Would he look any more ridiculous with 'eat Mrs Jenkins' homemade chutney' cut into his locks? The man responsible for the fashion faux pas is Alfonso, our local barber, who usually tackles nothing more adventurous than a short-back-and-sides. A request for a short-back-and-sides and selection of Maori symbols must've been like a breath of fresh air for the frustrated crimper. Did he ask if Joe wanted some gel on the finished product, as he always does, or offer a mild glazing? I shall have words with him. It's one thing to talk incessantly to a client about your holiday, quite another to stencil a map of the resort on his head. "What the bloody hell do you look like?" I demanded, glowering at my son's mutilated bonce. "My girlfriend likes it," said Joe. "She likes to run her fingers through it - when she's not using them to txt people." Perhaps the girl's blind and the bizarre patterns are Braille. She's spoken so little during her visits to our humble abode, I already suspect she's dumb. Joe says Donna would communicate more if we all purchased mobile phones and txt her, rather than speaking. Donna's hair is so heavilly gelled, run your fingers through it and you would need a blood transfusion. "Seven of my mates had the same hair cut at the same time," confessed Joe. Good God, there are eight people in our tiny parish with the same, silly haircuts! Visitors will think the rural community is in the grip of some terrible, infectious disease... or we're all really into topiary. "I hope you didn't have it done just because your mates did," I sniffed. "You'll find, my lad, you get a lot more respect by not following the herd - by being individual." "It hasn't worked for you, has it Dad?" flashed Joe. "You're the only one still wearing a tanktop from the 1970s - and they all take the mickey out of you." That's different. That's down to simple economics. "And what do you think prospective employers are going to make of that?" I seethed, pointing at the mane. "Danny's had it done," said Joe, "and he got a job straight away." Danny works in a tattoo parlour. He had to sign a legally-binding document, pledging he'll have his nipples pierced within six months of the starting date, before being offered the position. "In 20 years time," I told the lad, attempting a diplomatic approach, "your own children will look at pictures of you as you are today and laugh. Do you really want that?" He doesn't. He still remembers the time his own cousin thumbed through my wedding album and giggled so much stuff came out of her nose. I think it was the platform shoes and electric green socks that did it. "I suppose a tattoo is out of the question?" Joe asked as a final bombshell. He wants the legend 'Lockerz' emblazoned on his forearm in gothic print. The ne'er-do-wells at my old school scrawled 'crib' notes on their arms to cheat during O Level exams. They weren't the brightest, but they didn't need any prompts to remember their own names. "It's an age thing," Julie told me afterwards. "Our parents thought the things we wore in the 70s were ridiculous. I can remember my mother going mental after seeing me walking out of the front door in a boob-tube and glitter in my hair." "That was different," I told her, "you were on your way to Brownies." "That is one crazy haircut," stammered Colin who raced round after spotting Joe strolling through the parish. "In fact, it's three crazy haircuts at the same time. I haven't seen anything like that since our eldest stuck her fingers in the plug socket." "It was a big mistake," I huffed. "Joe went into Alfonson's and asked to have his hair cut like David Beckham - and that's the result. "Joe complained and told Alfonso, that's not how David Beckham has his hair." "And what did Alfonso say?" asked the pub sage. "He just said it would be if the soccer star came into his shop." | 
