the five worst hair cuts of my life
In chronological order...
1. Back in the 1980's a girl cutting my hair at a salon in the town of Newbridge suddenly began to tremble. Soon she was emitting little sensual whimpers of orgastic arousal. Every time she brushed against me there was a shrill little cry. All this while cutting the hair. For one brief shining moment I thought she was so excited by my presence that she was in danger of passing out. I had lice. The hair cut was not good.
2. Back in the 1990's a girl cutting my hair in Dublin began to excoriate the singer Michael Jackson. I listened for a bit and then informed her thusly: "There is a significant possibility that while Michael Jackson was a child someone in authority over him dosed him with female growth hormones in order to preserve the billion dollar tremelo in his voice. His little boy voice was worth a fortune to various record companys. An adult voice might have been worth nothing. I think they dosed him. If that happened and those hormones caused a derangement, we should not hold Michael Jackson entirely responsible for what came next. Whoever was a party to filling a little boy with those poisons in order to retain him as a cash cow would surely bear some or all of the blame for whatever he did afterwards." The girl became hostile. The hair cut was not good.
3. In the dulcet Autumn of 2016 in a salon in the north of the Kilcullen metropolis a girl cutting my hair spotted that I was carrying a book about the sanctity of life. She said: "If you were a woman you would never oppose abortion." I asked her did she think all women were in agreement with her. The conversation snowballed pleasantly into classic accusations of mutual monstrousness. The hair cut was not good.
4. Early last year in the Windrush hair salon (the only one to figure twice in our survey by the way) one of the girls was cutting my hair in a manner that did not betoken serenity. A wave of resentment flowed from her. For once I had said nothing which might have provoked her. I looked at her keenly. No. I didn't recognise her from my past. Still it was unmistakeable. She was not a happy camper. The radio in the background was droning on. Presently I discerned an extended news report. A former IRA leader latterly a parliamentarian in Northern Ireland called Martin McGuinness had died. I considered the lady massacring my hair. She was needless to say from Northern Ireland. But she could hardly be blaming me for the death of Martin McGuinness even if she did by chance happen to be aware of the critical assessments in my public writings about the drug dealing, people trafficking, child abusing, IRA terrorist mafia and their parliamentary proxies in the political party styled Sinn Fein. In any case the hair cut was not good.
5. A mildly unpleasant experience with one staff member at the Windrush salon was not enough to put me off. I am an optimist and went right back there a few months later. The owner cut my hair this time. While she snipped busily around the Heelers cranium, I began musing aloud about people who put their parents into old folks homes. "Even the red Indians didn't do that," I opined. "The Indians would drag their elderly up the mountains and leave em to die. I'm telling you they were more humane than us. We've come up with something really callous. We dump them into a prison styled a nursing home, where they're systemically abused by heavy metal listening sub norms. That's our humanity. What on earth has happened? The old contract between the generations was that our parents looked after us when we were babies and we looked after them when they got old. What happened? Now we're aborting our babies and throwing the oldies into a dungeon. It's unholy." I paused because the snipping had become a little tense. "It's not that simple," managed the hairdresser between gritted teeth, "some people have mortgages." Without thinking I shot back: "Yeah and lucky for them their parents didn't use the mortgage as an excuse to throw them in the bin when they were kids." The hair cut was not good. And she charged me 50 percent more than usual for the pleasure.
1. Back in the 1980's a girl cutting my hair at a salon in the town of Newbridge suddenly began to tremble. Soon she was emitting little sensual whimpers of orgastic arousal. Every time she brushed against me there was a shrill little cry. All this while cutting the hair. For one brief shining moment I thought she was so excited by my presence that she was in danger of passing out. I had lice. The hair cut was not good.
2. Back in the 1990's a girl cutting my hair in Dublin began to excoriate the singer Michael Jackson. I listened for a bit and then informed her thusly: "There is a significant possibility that while Michael Jackson was a child someone in authority over him dosed him with female growth hormones in order to preserve the billion dollar tremelo in his voice. His little boy voice was worth a fortune to various record companys. An adult voice might have been worth nothing. I think they dosed him. If that happened and those hormones caused a derangement, we should not hold Michael Jackson entirely responsible for what came next. Whoever was a party to filling a little boy with those poisons in order to retain him as a cash cow would surely bear some or all of the blame for whatever he did afterwards." The girl became hostile. The hair cut was not good.
3. In the dulcet Autumn of 2016 in a salon in the north of the Kilcullen metropolis a girl cutting my hair spotted that I was carrying a book about the sanctity of life. She said: "If you were a woman you would never oppose abortion." I asked her did she think all women were in agreement with her. The conversation snowballed pleasantly into classic accusations of mutual monstrousness. The hair cut was not good.
4. Early last year in the Windrush hair salon (the only one to figure twice in our survey by the way) one of the girls was cutting my hair in a manner that did not betoken serenity. A wave of resentment flowed from her. For once I had said nothing which might have provoked her. I looked at her keenly. No. I didn't recognise her from my past. Still it was unmistakeable. She was not a happy camper. The radio in the background was droning on. Presently I discerned an extended news report. A former IRA leader latterly a parliamentarian in Northern Ireland called Martin McGuinness had died. I considered the lady massacring my hair. She was needless to say from Northern Ireland. But she could hardly be blaming me for the death of Martin McGuinness even if she did by chance happen to be aware of the critical assessments in my public writings about the drug dealing, people trafficking, child abusing, IRA terrorist mafia and their parliamentary proxies in the political party styled Sinn Fein. In any case the hair cut was not good.
5. A mildly unpleasant experience with one staff member at the Windrush salon was not enough to put me off. I am an optimist and went right back there a few months later. The owner cut my hair this time. While she snipped busily around the Heelers cranium, I began musing aloud about people who put their parents into old folks homes. "Even the red Indians didn't do that," I opined. "The Indians would drag their elderly up the mountains and leave em to die. I'm telling you they were more humane than us. We've come up with something really callous. We dump them into a prison styled a nursing home, where they're systemically abused by heavy metal listening sub norms. That's our humanity. What on earth has happened? The old contract between the generations was that our parents looked after us when we were babies and we looked after them when they got old. What happened? Now we're aborting our babies and throwing the oldies into a dungeon. It's unholy." I paused because the snipping had become a little tense. "It's not that simple," managed the hairdresser between gritted teeth, "some people have mortgages." Without thinking I shot back: "Yeah and lucky for them their parents didn't use the mortgage as an excuse to throw them in the bin when they were kids." The hair cut was not good. And she charged me 50 percent more than usual for the pleasure.
posted by heelers | 4:20 AM
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