|
|
|
|
|
| November 3 2001 Saturday Gave my mate Brain Damage a David Beckham style haircut. He'd had a number one a couple of weeks ago and I cut eight tramlines in the new growth, criss-crossing his head. It isn't as good as David Beckham's, but then I don't suppose David Beckham's hairdresser has to manage with his mother's Ladyshave and the breadknife. Two of the lines were about as straight as a dog's hind leg, but most of them were almost straight, and I only cut him twice, so all in all I was quite pleased with myself for a first attempt. I've been thinking about why I don't get on with my father. It seems to me that when a son gets to his early teens the father recognises for the first time a new adult in the making. He himself has been through this boy into man process twenty odd years ago of course. Now he takes a good look at himself and realises what a complete balls-up he made of the job. At this point one of two things happen. One - he becomes bitter about it and begins to resent his son. Two - he acknowledges that he made a balls-up of turning into an adult himself, and vows that his son will make a better job of it. Neither of these two options are good news for the son. It is obviously bad news if your father starts to resent you, because father's who resent their sons don't buy them things and look after their interests. And it is equally bad news if the father vows that his son will make a better job of of it - because instead of being allowed to just get on with it the son has somebody who has already made a balls-up of it trying to point him in the right direction. Talk about the blind leading the blind. And I've got a double dose, because my father resents me and he tries to point me in the right direction! Well I'm not going to make it easy for him. |