Sunday, June 3, 2012


One of several exciting factors in my life since publishing Hull Damage involved a ritualistic shaving of my Thorian locks.

Cueball wouldn't be an awful X-Man name. Something with momentum, probably. Or, you know, baldness.

I'm balder than Professor X, Spider Jerusalem and Aang all rolled up into one mixed metaphor.

A few observations; twenty minutes under this oppressive California sun is sufficient to burn my scalp, I've developed an unnatural aversion to air conditioning and I'm willing to bet I'm ten times the swimmer I was three days ago.

I'll probably grow my mane back at the earliest opportunity, but it was interesting to see precisely how I'd look in a Russian gulag.

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