Thursday, March 31, 2005

the hair

we're needing a man to live in our hair,
live in our hair,
live in our hair.

he'll sing us songs when we're lying under the stars.
he'll know the capital of Rhodesia when we're at the pub quiz
he'll know just what to say to boys when they break our heart
and make us feel small.

a big need for hair collaboration.

lots of room in the curls for catching sun, smoke, flies and rumours.

some mornings i think i'd even ask the man to help me comb it. like americans rake the fall leaves from their lawns, the man would help rake yesterday's disappointment from my greasy locks. he'd catch witty comments that were about to go over my head.

there is always the danger that the hair will get too hungry. too independent. and start to really rule or lives.

one day i'll shower and try to force a brush through its tangled glory, only to find the hair has left me! crept across my pillow and slipped under the door to freedom.

if hair was free it would float. often single strands manage to escape, but perhaps they need the collective consciousness of a massive hairBALL to really be free. i see single stranded curls clinging to the carpet, my jumper, my cat, my boyfriend's chin (but that's another story).

often they mistake the plughole for the way out. can't see much joy to be had in sewage. my guess is the hair would like to cuddle in the grass. or blow down the sidewalk. or hitch a ride to the woods where it can plant itself in the muck and try to grow a hair tree.

what will become of the man who is renting the room in my hair when the hair leaves town? will he slip away with the hair and lead it to victory? or will he merely leave this brunette outpost for the next hot blow job...

before he had been the hair man it had been a fairly uneventful life. certainly nothing akin to squatting in folic bliss. but that was how these things worked out sometimes. sometimes caught up in breezes of engineering deadlines and the first daffodil flush of summer, you find yourself tangled somewhere quite unexpected.

the first haired encounter had begun rather innoculously. sitting all daisy contended in the park, the man was eating baba ganoush with his fingers. they were sticky with the yoghurty goodness. he licked them, and was glad that he was not hairy. it would not be pleasant, he considered, to have to munch upon your own fur everytime you wanted to clean your fingers.

or your arse.

there were other creatures in the park that daythat did not share his misgivings though. there were ducks who pecked mercilessly into their own fuzzy feathers and flesh, dogs that tongue -massaged their hairy bollocks with all the rigmarole and procession of carrying the olympic flame, even flies rubbing vile mouths over spiky haired black legs. he did not understand the glory of a furry tongue though, and eyed these creatures with a mild contempt. contempt is never a good emotion to aim at mother nature. she is big.

the man's attention was not captured by the licking creatures for long though. it was springtime, and the time of year when the first skirts begin their arduous journey north of the knee. skinny legs giggled round scuffed pavements and bottoms flirted and teased at desperate, panting hems. the man was not thinking about animal hair licks for long. sort of.

the park centred around a large pond. infact, many would argue that it was almost a lake, but that is irrelevant to the here and the now of the story of the man who ended up living in my hair. so; there was a pond, half hidden by algae and the floor dribbling with seaweeds and dodgy fish shapes. but it was still a pond, and the girls who came to the park liked to feel the cool slime of the water flicking against their calves as they splashed each other through inane chatter of boyfriends and essay deadlines. the man who ended up living in my hair liked the bench which faced the pond. it had nostalgic graffhiti scratched into its wooden planks and it afforded a suitable patch to block himself behind the crossword and watch. he learned a great gift with crosswords over the months he spent drooling by the pondside, much of which helped me later when he murmered quiz question answers. but in the long run, these things are irrelevant anyway, and the man was never much taken by the cheap word games of crosswords. crypticism, after a while, stops being the clever and devious concoction and faded into babbling as inane as any the girls came up with. and not nearly so attractive.


Once upon a time, hair floated free.
single strands curled around the collective consciousness
one man tamed the tangles
and held them captive in his tower.

he sung to the hair
about lying under the Rhodesian stars.
he growled at the pub boys
who broke its hairy heart.

He charmed it.
he made us feel small
sequestered in his room of curls,
to catch the sun,
the smoke,
the flies.

One morning as he raked yesterday’s locks.
his brush got tangled in its greasy glory,
he was in over his head.
in danger.
the hair wanted to rule his life.
To creep across his pillow to freedom.
he had hairBALLs striving to be free.
clinging to the carpet lifeboat,
to jumpers,
to cat chins,
hoping for a free ride
to the woods.
where hair might finally take root
to grow a firry tree.


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