Januariad

I notice Paddy’s cutting my hair a bit close. ‘Take it easy there, boss. I need that,’ says I. ‘Are you trying to leave me with nothing?’

‘I just need to take a little more,’ he says, his tongue out the side of his gob. ‘A little more.’ I can see his face in the mirror, is how I know about his tongue.

‘Ah Jesus, cop on now. That’s too much.’

He rubs his fingers over my scalp. ‘I found a book in the attic,’ he says. ‘Nearly enough now.’

‘Look, I asked for a haircut, not a shearing.’

He rubs the hair off his hands and chest and rubs a blue towel all over my head and neck. ‘I think that’s enough. Hang on a minute.’ He runs out of the room while I brush off into the sink. I look half-cooked with the hair all gone. Paddy is back in thirty seconds with a heavy, brown book in under his arm. ‘Look at this thing!’ he puts it on the closed toilet seat. ‘I found it. It has uncle Pad’s name on the inside.’ Uncle Pad’s our grand-uncle, not our uncle. ‘Back in a minute,’ and he’s gone again.

There’s no title on the cover. It looks like there was one on the spine once but it’s worn off. The spine is raw thread and rough paper. Just as I’m opening it up Paddy comes back with some tools from the shed in his hand. ‘Will you sit down again?’ he says, taking up position behind the chair.

I check the tools for anything sharp and take a seat. ‘What’s up? Now you have me looking like a seagull.’ He opens the book on the toilet seat and I can see he’s put bookmarks of torn newspaper in in a few places.

‘Face forward please.’ With his tongue out again, he takes Dad’s big callipers and turns the screw until it’s wide enough to fit over my head. I’m too curious to object. One point presses against my forehead above my right eye and the dial turns until the other touches the softer skin behind my left ear. Paddy reads the number off the side and writes it down on another scrap of newspaper.

‘I’m going to find out what you’re like,’ he mutters around the pencil in his mouth.

‘You know what I’m like.’

‘The book explains how to measure your head and find out what you’re like.’

‘What? How? You know what I’m like.’

‘It’s science!’ The calipers is now measuring between just above my ears. ‘There’s diagrams and everything.’ He picks up the steel ruler and holds it up to my forehead.

‘That bit doesn’t look very scientific.’

‘This feckin’ thing only has centimeters. The book wants inches.’

‘Thirty centimetres is twelve inches. About.’

‘I’m not a feckin’ calculator.’

After ten minutes he’s done measuring and he starts making notes with the book on his lap and the newspaper on the toilet seat. When I try to look over his shoulder he shoos me away. ‘How does it work?’ I ask.

‘It’s very complicated. I have to measure all the areas of your skull and it tells me about the size of your brain. Your brain’s split up into twenty-seven bits. I can figure out what kind of person you are by looking at each bit.’

‘What’s it telling you?’

‘You’ve a big dent in your Wit there. And another little one in your Love of Approbation.’

‘Love of what?’

‘How many centimetres in an inch again?’ His tongue must be parched at this stage. While he works I’m feeling my scalp for lumps and dents.

‘Show us the diagrams,’ I say.

‘Hang on.’ After a few seconds he stands up with the pencil in his lips, looking very solemn. ‘I’m afraid it’s bad news.’

‘What?’

‘I did everything twice, just to make sure.’

‘What?’

‘It says here you’re a high-functioning lúdramán with a tendency towards bed-wetting.’

‘It does not!’

‘And that you’ve stupid hair. Sorry. It’s science.’ He walks out of the bathroom, head hung. I pick up the book. It’s a French dictionary.