Back to work after long weekend visiting mater in North Yorkshire. Back late night so too knackered to wash hair this morning. Too knackered to let equally knackered coiffure prevent purchase of cappuccino en route to work from Wimbledon coffee stall. Handsome barista fortunately off, instead, purchase caffeine from East European barista, Berlin wall-faced graduate of Stasi school of charm. Man of few words, and ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ not amongst them. Advise barista that customer service skills need improving. ‘You mean like I smile?’ say barista, baring teeth like amused Alsatian on border patrol.
Get on District line train, descend straight into bad hair hell. Am surrounded by eight people with terrifying hair issues, including man with horizontal helmet fringe; bloke with haircut last seen on Uncle Fester from The Munsters; woman with two tone (henna and brown) corn plaits wound round head like walnut whip; bloke with bald patch like Friar Tuck.
Am totally put out by hair offensiveness.