Who Is Andrew Beattie?

Hello, come here often?

It is Sunday at half past three and I, Andrew Beattie, am at the centre of a growing conspiracy surrounding my hair, the hair that grows upon my head and above my face. I’m not sure exactly who is at the centre of this conspiracy but they are amassing a large number of agents, people of varying heights, of different genders and with various musical tastes. Most importantly these are all people that I know and Love, friends, family and colleagues. I’ll stop floating about the very edges of this dark and sinister plan and get straight to the nitty-gritty if I may.

I have long hair, long enough to cover my ears. It goes well with my beard, so I think at least. I’ve had long hair for the past few years after years of having a closely shaved bonce and before that I sported a large mass of yellow blonde hair shaped like a bowl when I was but a junior in short trousers and long before I could tell my mother that I thought that I looked like a twat and that I found it embarrassing that we shared matching haircuts. Anyway, as soon as I was able to make conscious decisions about the style of the hair on my head, off it went the lot of it.

Many years of cropped hair then passed until a couple of years ago and one fateful day when, whilst rummaging in the loft I stumbled across the music of my dad’s early years in the form of glistening vinyl’s from artists like James Taylor, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Jim Croce to name but a few, and the hair grew,  grew and grew, along with a beard and a wish to have many unprotected sexual encounters and wait along with the rest of them for the dawning of the age of Aquarius. I have since stopped waiting but the hair has remained and I’ve grown quite fond of it. It would appear that others however have not grown as fond of it and a cabal of shaven headed fanatics have surfaced, infiltrating all aspects of my life with the aim of me shaving my head again. Maybe I’m like a God to these people and they are a cult who read from an ancient text which outlines the second coming of a shaven headed God who will arrive in the form of a 25 year old aspiring writer who fumbles his way through life and has a large penis. Well they obviously have me mistaken with some other schmuck, and not just because I have a small penis.

This sordid affair all started about 6 months ago when my cousin harmlessly, or so it appeared at the time, suggested that I get a haircut over coffee, “you suit short hair better” may well have been the comment. I agreed that I could probably do with a trim but forgot all about it instantly.  The months passed and during this time my mother got in with the act along with the mothers of both my parents and my boss, all dropping thinly veiled hints and all the while disguising their secret loathing of my head. This all came to a head, no joke, when on Friday in the public house after work two colleagues who have never before shown any interest in my hair, on separate occasions and without prompting, said: “you look cool with shaved hair; I think you should get it cut.”  Now, I am not a paranoid man by nature but as the words left their lips the past 6 months flashed across my mind and through a hazy smoke in my mind I recounted hundreds of similar instances of these random comments being made, usually mid conversation and to a backing tune of ‘Almost Cut my Hair’ by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.

I’ll be honest with you at this point and say that I have considered the possibility that I do need a little trim. The problem I now have is who to trust. For all I know this little ‘corporation’ of theirs could have spread right through society and that right at this very moment there is a meeting at the local social club, hundreds of them, including many members of the hairdressing community, family members and maybe even the local MP. Christ, I’d have to leave the country. I’d almost certainly go to South America, they seem to embrace long hair down there and with a little practice on my Spanish I’m sure I would disappear into society, maybe even open a little bar called Andrew’s.  No, that wouldn’t work at all; I’d have to change my name, Juan Pedro Carlos maybe. I’d also have to take Wallace the cat with me; I couldn’t leave him here in case they torture him for information regarding my whereabouts. He’s strong willed, that much is certain, but I don’t know how far they’d go to get information from him and I couldn’t live with myself thinking of him strapped up with electrodes on his many nipples in a darkened shower room dripping with icy cold water shouting “you’ll never break me you bastards”, spitting blood and attempting to lick himself clean as my former friends, family and colleagues stand round in the dark with torches under their faces to make them look really scary.

I really don’t get why it is so important to people, I mean I really don’t care what other people do with their hair, not even a little bit. The fact that they are really concerned about my hair does bother me though. I’m not aware that I’ve become a different person with long hair and a beard. Maybe they just don’t like me anymore, and you know what, I could probably take that. It would be totally different if they said to me “you know what Andrew, you’ve turned into a real prick of late”, at least then I could keep my long hair and beard and just try and be a nicer person, buy a big issue every now and again or help an old lady across the street with her shopping. Well you know what, I’m sorry old lady but you can carry your own fucking bags.

As a result of all your scheming against my long hair I’ll not be getting it cut thank you very much. I did consider cutting it, just for a moment though and for the sake of my cat, but then during a period of soul searching I stopped and asked “what would Chuck Norris do?” If it’s good enough for Chuck then it’s good enough for me.

Right, I’m happy now that I’ve got this off my mind. Maybe now that they know that I’m on to them they’ll move on and leave me alone but probably not. Maybe, just maybe though, oh fuck it, forget it. Thank you for stopping by again to listen to the random outpouring of my mind and until next time remember,

You may take our lives, but you’ll never take John Freda.

Tally-Ho,

Andrew