Meanwhile, back at the ranch, my poor old melodeon-playing dad has been forced to resort to medical means for the brutally arthritic thumbs that are the occupational hazard of the ageing folky. It's some sort of topical steroid affair, and obviously the whole thing is neither pleasant nor delightful. Never one to not point out the comedy inherent in such hideously unfunny situations, though, I can't help but notice the side-effects of this stuff: "over use" could result in the patient becoming "agitated or confused".
He's a folk musician.
I mean, How would you tell?
In other news, because I've been getting wordy lately and need some pictures, this...
...is a year's worth of hair from after the pre-New Zealand emigration wigs-for-kids shearing (excepting a few instances of grabbing bits and hacking at it in disgust to avoid the worst of mullethood). You need a minimum eleven inches to donate; I figure it'll be a good two more years before it gets long enough for another harvest, and for kids' wigs, there can be no grey. I'm not sure if I've got two more years before it encroaches. What do you think? Wait it out, or head for the scissors?