Short back and sides

Living in the 15th, you can't just let yourself go. I mean people know me here and the nosier ones are always watching what I'm wearing, where I'm going, and who I'm hanging around with. It's bad enough that a healthy (i.e. fat) balding guy drops me off at school every morning (I tell my classmates he's a butler) but the Gongo was starting to let himself go, at least his hair. I mean, this guy was looking like a hippie!

Fortunately, my coiffeur and confidant, Bruno, understood my dilemma. What would people think. I mean, in this world, it's guilt by association.

Last night, I told Gabriel about the giant ice cream that across in the 7th. How people spend nights on the rue de Bac thinking they might catch a glimpse. The kind of people who camp on the shores of Loch Ness hoping for a photograph that they can sell to the British tabloids so the rest of the country's indecisive heathens can read something that finally interests them other than drunken fights in football stadiums.

He took the bait and followed me up the rue de Sèvres to the rue de Bac. A short while later the Gongo was looking less like a 60s reject and more like Cary Grant. Of course, I couldn't pass up a chance to let Bruno's Rodin-like hands sculpt my hair into a follicular masterpiece, so I said that I needed a little change in my life and that a new hairstyle might do the trick. We took advantage of the sun and cut my hair outside.

After the usual bon bon, we waved goodbye and left in search of the giant ice cream. We found it but it tasted like plastic. I suppose the limeys wouldn't know the difference.

Why don't you check out a shamelessly extensive collection of pictures of me and the Gongo's Saturday here: No country for young hippies