Unleashing the Beast

This morning I had my usual monthly appointment with Alessandro, my hair artiste. Yet again, he excelled himself. When, afterwards, I exhibited the aftermath through Piccadilly, the coiffeurred perfection of my glinting locks put all other men’s hair to shame. I suppose it was the equivalent of Charles Atlas stripping off on a crowded beach, flaunting his rippling muscles and finely-honed torso, and kicking sand in the faces of the seven-stone weaklings.

However, now, as I relax over a pre-lunch scotch and Canada Dry in Rules, a worrying thought suddenly occurs: What will happen to all that hair of mine that got cut off? I’d like to think it will be used to line the floors of up-market hamster cages or maybe help re-thatch Burt Reynolds. But there is another, more sinister possibility.

Suppose the management at Taylor’s attempt to extract genetic material from the clippings in order to clone me and thereby guarantee their future income? Worse, what happens if they succeed? I imagine that, if they do, they’ll probably have clones to spare. They'll therefore transport several of the surplus to an island just off Costa Rica, call it Slavko Park, and charge people extortionate sums to visit. This needn't be a bad idea in itself, of course. I'm sure I could claim in a court of law that, because the clippings were originally mine, I should be legally entitled to a share of the gate profits. No, the problem comes if any of the Slavkos escape and return to the UK.

Let's say, for example, that 500 Slavkos made it back here. Most likely, their natural instinct would be to head for their biologically programmed places of sustenance and recreation. So, for instance, I might phone up Rules to make a reservation, only to find that the whole place had already been totally booked up by me(s) for the foreseeable future. Or, if I went down to The Salisbury Arms for a quiet pint or two, I could find the whole pub totally packed out with boisterous Slavkos. And my attempts at creating gourmet meals could be thwarted by the fact of the Slavkos getting to the supermarket before me and buying up all the decent ingredients. I'd have to subsist on Pot Noodles and Big Macs, instead, which might turn me Working Class.

There is, though, a Worst Case Scenario. Instead of creating 500 Slavkos, the barber might create just one. But not just any Slavko - a giant sized, horribly hirsute Slavkong, possessed of 500 times my intellect, my taste, and my fecundity. Within hours, it would become the dominant species on earth, and would therefore have first call on all the best hairdressers and their haircare products. And, after its hairdressing appointment, it would probably seize some screeching, blonde-haired bint from Michaeljohn, on Albermarle Street, and rampage through London with her while simultaneously biting people's heads off, before finally climbing up to the top of Canary Wharf and getting shot off by biplanes.

Then some smart-arse will inevitably say, “No – it wasn’t the planes that got him. It was a combination of Taylor’s Mint and Jojoba Conditioner and Pierre Augé Styling Wax that killed the beast.” Which, all things considered, is a fuck of a price to pay just for a decent haircut.