This week in lockdown at my humble abode there occurred two momentous occasions. At an online meeting on Thursday I discovered, along with a swathe of workmates, our jobs were being axed as the virus bit deep into the company piggy bank.
Then on Sunday I had a haircut.
On the face of it the two things may not appear to be linked. Indeed you may very well be asking yourself if I have, finally, descended into lunacy.
But, dear reader, the two things are very much linked. Let me explain.
Firstly, technically, I haven't actually lost my job yet.
Like thousands of New Zealanders, we of the media are not immune to the economic effects of Covid-19. A massive downturn in the company's fortunes has meant the role I have occupied off and on for the better part of 40 years is being disestablished and I've been given a period of notice.
Three new roles are to be created in a different team and those of us chosen for the chop can apply for one of those if we want.
Naturally I discussed the matter with Mrs P.
Basically it came down to whether I could make more money selling my body or busking outside the pub.
Waiting for Covid-19 release papers
Life in lockdown unfair on men folk
Very kindly, and diplomatically, she suggested while my voice and guitar playing abilities were a delight for my two granddaughters, there probably wasn't a lot of money to be had from endless renditions of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star - even with an Elvis voice and dance moves - outside the pub on a Friday night, or any night for that matter.
Similarly my first suggestion didn't win much approval either, though she did concede some people might cough up some cash to ensure I didn't sell my body.
This all means I will be going for one of the new roles.
And that's where the haircut comes in.
Interviews will be held next week, probably via video link, with the head of the new unit conducting the process. Obviously one needs to make a good first impression.
Normally I would whip in to my barber mate and get the Brad Pitt lookalike special, guaranteed to send the heart of Mrs P aflutter.
Unfortunately, like most businesses, my barber is closed so I've had to settle for a homemade job.
Now I don't know about you but shaving or having a fashionably clipped hair do has not been a priority for me over the last three and a half weeks. In fact my scone is looking decidedly Boris Johnson, if you know what I mean - like I'd been dragged backwards through a hedge - and the southern end of my rugged, manly (ahem) face is covered by a big bushy beard.
Worse still my naturally bushy eyebrows had taken on a life off their own and had threatened to join in the middle.
As Mrs P surveyed my head from all angles I could tell she was not convinced my presentation as it was would cut the mustard at the upcoming interview.
The sudden buzz into action of her clippers confirmed that view and for the next half hour or so my head was pushed left, right, up, down, tilted and turned.
And it wasn't just my head that got the treatment.
Hairs that were considering stretching down to the ground were ripped from my nose and ears while my eyebrows quivered with fear.
When it was all over Mrs P expressed herself satisfied with the result.
Apparently I had one eyebrow that was bushier than the other, she said, but she'd spent a bit of extra time on it, hacking it into an acceptable shape as best she could and now I was all cut, polished and ready for my interview.
As I checked over her handiwork in the mirror I was pretty certain the boss of the unit conducting the interview wouldn't forget me in a hurry.
I'd most likely go down in her notes as the guy with one eyebrow.
• Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to firstname.lastname@example.org .