There was a lass in the Melbourne burbs; she came there from Newtown, She wandered over street and park, she wandered up and down. She loitered here, she loitered there, till she was like to drop, Until at last in sheer despair she sought a barber's shop. " I'd like you to trim my locks, I'll give anything a go, Who cares if I'm a Newtown dyke up here in Gree'boro?"
The hairdresser was small and fat, as bogans mostly are, She wore a Millers special dress, she drove an ugly car: Maybe she was a humorist of note and keen at repartee, Maybe she wanted to do a swatch, whatever that may be, But when she saw our friend arrive, she exclaimed `How can this be?' And asked if she was taking drugs and was off her bloody tree
There were many gilded ladies that hung out in the mall, Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all; To them the dresser sent a text, before her phone did shut, `I'll give this try-hard trendy dyke a real discount haircut.' And as she combed and snipped it off she asked with a bit of a sneer 'I can't believe you cut your own hair and shape it round your ear'
A grunt was all reply she got; as she snipped from front to back, 'Why do you cut your own hair? is it money that you lack?' "I used to have dreadlocks" our friend she did reply "For the next ten years I just played around, with lots of coloured dye My hair's been pink, and blonde and green, and red and orange and blue It was easy to cut it myself, I made sculpture with it too" "Dreadlocks! how did you wash them!" the professional enquired "I never bothered, not for years, but in the end I was quite tired"
"So what brings you here? why the change?" asked the lady in the shop "Would you like some gel, do you want it short, and spiky up on top?" Remembering her partners Mum and her spiky scary mullett Our heroine's stomach did quiver, bile rose up in her gullet This Newtown girl was wary of the suburban hair disease "I don't use gel, I don't want spikes, just trim it simply please"
The dresser kept on cutting, and clippered behind the throat She raised her pencilled brow, she paused awhile to gloat, "Do you like this style, do you like this cut, do you like what I have done" The customer replied, "Perhaps, Just let me put my glasses on" She met the dressers eye and sighed, and quickly looked away And agreed to the offer of gel that again passed her way
She struggled gamely to her feet, and faced the talentless foe: "You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!" Alas it was a dream, to rant and rave and yell She knew the only thing to do, was quickly leave this hell
Our girl got up, and moved away, her wallet it was proffered The dresser spoke, and quoted high, double what was offered Her eyes did bulge, her throat went dry, she pointed to the banner "It says here ten bucks for a haircut! or is that just for a Nanna" The dresser said "Ten bucks for a cut, but you needed more, this we call a style" Our heroine was flabbergasted, she could already taste her bile Scared of spewing on the spot, she quickly left the scene And cursed that nasty mall in the borough known as green
She would have liked a wild up-country yell to wake the dead to hear, Dreaming of a loud revenge as she mumbled in her beer "I only wish I had a knife, you hair destroying shark! I could do better with a stanley knife, even in the dark!" Maybe to the hairdresser this was a type of fun destroying the self esteem and dignity of someone Maybe cheap haircuts are just for gilded girls or those who just don't care Who don't feel scared and stupified to sit in a hairdressers chair
And now while round the bathroom floor the final clippings fall, She tells the story o'er and o'er, and laments her visit to the mall. "Random personal experiments, oh God, I've really had enough, What a crazy thought I had, why did I think I am that tough?" And so she swore "never again, there's some things I cannot do" And vows that forevermore, she'll cut her own hair on the loo
How do you convey emotion, frenzy, stupidity overtiredness on a goddamm preformatted preset fixed font frame? Partly its paranoia - so my words don't get cut and pasted in some morons bloody plagiarised essay, or some clever dicks plagiarsied bloody thesis, but mostly - I wnat you to stumble and trip and slide through my slurring, slipping, striding, screaming missives, as I type them. Life is always more interesting in the cracks between stuff.