May 5, 2017

Snip Snip

These women have 3 people's-worth of eyebrows on one face.
Make-up thick with tonal denial.
Hair choppy, on-trend and unflattering, or layered to the hilt and borderlining the shades of old age Jane Fonda is keeping shapely thighs running from.
Feet kept stilted off the ground by thick heeled boots, as if the small shards of hair all over the floor is a sea of tiny alligators.
These young women are all thin and likely nourished on vegan feedstock, except the transsexual who is definitely prettier than me, and has hairier legs than me.
Funky '80s music lies its way out of a concealed speaker.

I sit here in dread. These trendy little darlings of the Syd Road scene are going to snip at my blondes?

The air is dancing with overpriced product scents and the high timbre of all the women, who have, in close enough quarters, adapted to share a single cadence, pitch and cuteness. Black jumpsuits and sharply winged eyes reflect 400 x over in the mirrors, and suddenly I'm in some never-ending tunnel of dark-clad, perky femininity, waiting for my head to land on an invisible chopping block, and for the usual post-cut regret to strand me in my bathroom for an hour here or there over the next two weeks while I fix what I smiled at and paid for.

But I didn't pay for this haircut, so I'll shut up now, and hope history gets sick of repeating itself.
And yet, here I sit, getting the same cut as always.

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