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Below is exactly what happened to Daily Star man Tom McGhie after he chose to get his hair cut like the Ibiza Final Boss. After the brutal trim which made the barber say Jesus Christ McGhie, 29, opted for black shorts, a vest and hideous sunglasses before running to the nearest club he could find at midday on a Tuesday: Boxpark.
After a fateful haircut, Im out the door quicksticks to march around Shoreditch, waiting for people to crowd around me like it's 1964 and Im all of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. After about five minutes however, not a single look. Weird not the response I was expecting.
I pound my way towards Boxpark, a pop-up retail and dining destination. Surely, here I shall find my people. Here I shall be taken in and worshipped like the raving God I am. But when I arrive nothing.
Who do I remind you of? I plead with one hapless drinker. They look genuinely apologetic as they say sorry, Ive not got a clue. Come on! Im the Ibiza Final Boss.
Where are the requests for selfies? Where are the deals for ad campaigns? Wheres all the free booze? Nowhere to be seen. Im treated like an outcast. A group of revellers intentionally move further down from me to enjoy their cocktails in peace.
People regard me like an unwanted wild animal thats traipsed into their back garden. Shoo! their eyes say, while their faces give off fear and confusion.
Then it dawns on me. Maybe this has all been a hideous mistake. In fairness, I am in the wrong country. I should be over in Spain, partying with the man himself and literally drinking in the plaudits.
Nevertheless, I cant shake that crushing feeling I will never be Him. Theres only one Ibiza Final Boss, and his name is Jack Kay.
In between trying to get peoples attention, Ive sent several selfies of my new hairdo to various group chats and family members. Now, with the hot Shoreditch sun beating down upon my brow, I check to see a flooded inbox full of jibes and retorts.
Sleaford Mods want their haircut back, says one pal. You look like a Make A Wish Kid whos last request was to have their hair done like the Ibiza Final Boss, chimes my sister. Thanks everyone.
I cant look at it, writes my girlfriend, who had earlier in the day pleaded with me not to get the infamous bob. Its actually alright, I coax, while staring at the strange cartoon Ive become in a passing taxis window.
I dont think Ive ever seen the shape of your headI didnt ask for this. She hadnt asked for it. Sorry, I type back. Still on for later this evening? The message is read, but theres no reply.
Slowly, I pull myself together and go back to the tube, still with pen drawn all over my face to create a faux beard. The dream is over. Ill never be Him.
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