Day 53, No. 53. Dr. Evil

Dr. EvilHAIRCUT 100: Day 53, No. 53. Rightly or wrongly, when this happened to me – alopecia, I mean – and I looked begrudgingly at my new face in the mirror, my immediate thought was: ‘Bond villain.’ So, following on from yesterday, I give you Mike Myers as Dr. Evil, a man after my own heart: ‘I didn’t spend six years in evil medical school to be called “Mister,” thank you very much!’ (I have a Ph.D, so my title is ‘Doctor’ – I hate being called ‘Mister.’) Anyway, Dr. Evil is, of course, the arch nemesis of Austin Powers, International Man of Mystery, and an affectionate pastiche of Donald Pleasence’s kinky Ernst Stavro Blofeld. As Powers is also played by Myers, Dr. Evil is essentially his doppelgänger or, in Jungian terms, his ‘shadow aspect,’ as are all classic hero/villain combinations: Holmes and Moriarty, Batman and The Joker etc – they are all reflections of each other. (See? You might think these movies were basically Benny Hill meets Carry on Spying, but if you dig a bit this stuff’s actually pretty deep!) He is also the occasional lover of Frau Farbissina, personal assistant and founder of the ‘militant wing’ of the Salvation Army, father of Scott and his own evil clone, Mini-Me, and owner of Mr. Bigglesworth, a puffy cat who lost all his fur when thawed after cryogenic suspension with his master.

In his own words: ‘The details of my life are quite inconsequential… Very well, where do I begin? My father was a relentlessly self-improving boulangerie owner from Belgium with low-grade narcolepsy and a penchant for buggery. My mother was a 15-year-old French prostitute named Chloé with webbed feet. My father would womanize; he would drink; he would make outrageous claims like he invented the question mark. Sometimes, he would accuse chestnuts of being lazy. The sort of general malaise that only the genius possess and the insane lament. My childhood was typical: summers in Rangoon, luge lessons… In the spring, we’d make meat helmets. When I was insolent I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds — pretty standard, really. At the age of 12, I received my first scribe. At the age of 14, a Zoroastrian named Vilmer ritualistically shaved my testicles. There really is nothing like a shorn scrotum — it’s breath-taking; I suggest you try it.’ So there you go.

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