My haircut is broken. I am by the mirror in a toy-sized bathroom and the air is thick with steam. There was a time I would see a barber every six weeks, when my natural quiff reached a particularly loathsome crest, but of late I have held off longer, opting not to incur the wrath of a Frenchman's scissors. I regained some confidence during these days in the wilderness by leaving my hair to dry mostly of its own accord, rather than continue the quiff-encouraging practice of vigorous towelling. By this method I was able to extend the time between cuts by as much as three weeks. I am, as I write, at the sticky end of one of these extension, and each day it has become more of an endeavour to mould my mop into a satisfactory state. Today uneven lumps of hair won't be tamed, won't flatten in accordance with their surrounding topography.
Here I am seated in a Russian toilet stall, the RFC having dispatched me to Moscow. I may look calm, even satisfied, but mere moments earlier I was frantically trying to layer together a crude oval of toilet paper while fighting off hateful gusts of air from the dryers. I would lift my hand from placing the final piece only for half the bloody thing to take flight before I could so much as unbuckle. You may wonder why I bothered at all. Though I'll concede its medical benefits are probably negligible, there is an immense psychological comfort in knowing you are not coming into direct contact with a surface that has been enjoyed by so many men's bottoms.
While we are on the subject, I learnt, in New Zealand, how to wash my hands. First you wet your hands with running water, preferably warm. Actually, first you do something grubby to justify washing your hands but we'll take that as read. Next you apply a generous amount of soap and work it into a lather by rubbing your hands together for at least 15 seconds. That's right: at least 15 seconds. Count along next time. Finally you rinse off the soap under the tap, a process which should also last at least 15 seconds. No shortcuts, OK? Sure, you can stroll past the sink entirely, as many folks do, and probably no one will be the wiser. Or maybe you just give your hands a quick splash and skip the soap part. But inside you will know what you have done, and it will weigh heavily upon you, eating away at your soul until, thirty seconds later, you forget it entirely and get on with your life.