I’m a sweaty person, naturally. I don’t need to do any exercise to work myself into a smelly, moist stupor. I can happily sit inside on a cold winter’s night, but turn the thermostat above normal room temperature and I will lose pounds of weight in lost skin effluent. This makes me incredibly prone to dehydration, and that’s annoying when you fancy a beer in the warm summer sun because before long I will be left with a headache that makes a hangover seem mild. So for every pint of lager I consume, I need to down about 4 litres of ionised water to compensate.
The heat goes to my head, too. I spend most of the year growing an impressive thatch on top of my head. This has to go when the sun pokes through, too. Firstly, I start playing sport and I haven’t yet got the guts to wear a Robert Pires-style headband while playing office football so it has to go or I wont see the ball, let alone kick it. Secondly, my body temperature will rise to a point where I am certain to pass out if I don’t cool my head down. I could just douse my head in water, but this is flawed as it just means I’ll have wet hair that’ll warm up and drip slightly diluted sweat and hair gel into my eyes, which stings like a mo-fo.
So I get my hair cut for the first time in months. I never like going to the barbers or getting a haircut anywhere. If you grow a fringe as healthy as the one I had you feel as though it may never return, particularly when your hairline is revealed and you begin to work out if it has receded at all since the last time you visited (I’m still unsure and a tape measure is excessive). It’s essentially paying somebody to highlight the threat of male-pattern baldness to you.
So fuck Summer. Apart from Glastonbury and Reading, which will be great fun.
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