Finally! Prince William got a proper haircut.
I've been urging the bloke to go the number one comb for some time now. It's been obvious for many years that he was thinning out on top and as I said to him, "Will," I said, "we've got the rotten Frenchies where we want them at the moment, but you never know when the Dauphin or the Grand Constable is likely to start stirring up trouble around Agincourt again. You can't expect the happy few to follow you into wanton slaughter if they're distracted by your bald spot."
Well, of course, it was a struggle at first. His mum had a famous head of hair and it seemed for a long time that, given his colouring, he might have been lucky enough to inherit her royal mop.
Turns out he got the sandy fecund look, but down at the root I'm afraid it was all old Charlie's woefully slap-headed DNA. Didn't help that brother Harry was still sporting that magnificent old growth forest of orang-utan hair while he got to fly gunships around the Hindu Kush and generally live the life of Reilly.
I said to him, "Will," I said, "your life is yours to live, not Harry's, and you can't be living it with regrets and a comb-over. Embrace the baldcore," I told him. "The zero is the king of haircuts. Jason Statham, Vin Diesel, Agent 47, they'll tell you, I do not lie."
It helped of course that he could see I was living my own best life completely shorn of distracting fuzz and fur. Meanwhile, the Oval Office had been occupied by a talking comb-over, variously described as looking like "a corn husk doll cursed by a witch", the "furrowed wake that a speedboat would leave on a lake of orange sherbet" and a "decomposing pumpkin pie inhabited by vicious albino squirrels".
Possessed of a not entirely dissimilar buttery-fluffed tint to his own retreating locks, his royal highness finally folded last week and took my advice. Or got halfway there, at least.
Like many a fellow who has decided to let the world look upon his unadorned skull, young Will couldn't bring himself to go for the total buzzcut on his first outing. He wimped out with a number two comb, but I am sure that having felt the resurgence of his virility and masculine powers as the cold winds blew down from the arctic and across his newly naked bonce, it won't be long before he joins me in shearing himself right down to the bone.
And gentlemen in England new abed, shall think themselves accursed and hold their manhoods cheap while Will and I bring the awesome with our awesome supercuts.
