Just let it go, man
Although it inevitably turns to miserable, cream suede-wrecking sludge, I quite like snow. But I had selfishly never considered the serious problems that extreme weather can cause for wearers of the comb-over hairstyle.
Last week, the gentle, occasional flutters of pretty, plump snowflakes finally turned into some proper, hard-core muthaf*cking mini-ninja wheels of ice. I woke up on Friday morning wondering what the hell the weird tink! tink! tink! on the window was. It sounded like something tiny was trying to get in. It was. Little bits of hard, properly frozen, serious snow had FINALLY settled across the tranquil dual carriageway, the peaceful back of the drive-thru dry-cleaners, and the picturesque 50ft concrete wall. Ahhh.
Outside, the mean little ice chips flicked themselves at my face, inside my hood and up my sleeve. At Tolworth, a man on a suit boarded the train with a coffee shop serviette clutched to his head, and proceeded to treat me to a fascinating display of comb-over maintenance.
First, he dabbed and patted at the top area of his hair for a good two minutes. Then he produced another serviette, and held it onto his head as if it were a cracked boiled egg with runny yolk. Next, he fished out a horrible, manky hairbrush that appeared to date from 1945, trawled it lightly across the comb-over, and reshaped the sides.
More serviettes and head-clutching, and then he brought out a tin of hairspray, and finished the look. Perfecto! Would you like to see the back? Second thoughts, best not.
I wonder if he had to repeat the whole process in the toilets when he got to work.
He did catch me looking, but I could not stop myself from marvelling at this live-action display of self-delusion and hair dismorphia. All it lacked was David Attinborough, crouching beside him on the train floor, murmering: "... this adult male spends at least four hours every day preening and cultivating his head hair. Sadly, he is aware that his better days are behind him, and so arranges his sparse coat across his balding pate in a desperate attempt to intimidate younger males, impress females, and create an illusion of useful virility. The longer he can trick the pack, the longer he can stave off the day when the younger males will chase him onto the roof of Bumble & Fukwit Holdings, and shove him to his death."
I have been criticised by friends for plucking my eyebrows on the train. To them I say - hah! At least I don't preen my sad, sad, bald bonce.
Last week, the gentle, occasional flutters of pretty, plump snowflakes finally turned into some proper, hard-core muthaf*cking mini-ninja wheels of ice. I woke up on Friday morning wondering what the hell the weird tink! tink! tink! on the window was. It sounded like something tiny was trying to get in. It was. Little bits of hard, properly frozen, serious snow had FINALLY settled across the tranquil dual carriageway, the peaceful back of the drive-thru dry-cleaners, and the picturesque 50ft concrete wall. Ahhh.
Outside, the mean little ice chips flicked themselves at my face, inside my hood and up my sleeve. At Tolworth, a man on a suit boarded the train with a coffee shop serviette clutched to his head, and proceeded to treat me to a fascinating display of comb-over maintenance.
First, he dabbed and patted at the top area of his hair for a good two minutes. Then he produced another serviette, and held it onto his head as if it were a cracked boiled egg with runny yolk. Next, he fished out a horrible, manky hairbrush that appeared to date from 1945, trawled it lightly across the comb-over, and reshaped the sides.
More serviettes and head-clutching, and then he brought out a tin of hairspray, and finished the look. Perfecto! Would you like to see the back? Second thoughts, best not.
I wonder if he had to repeat the whole process in the toilets when he got to work.
He did catch me looking, but I could not stop myself from marvelling at this live-action display of self-delusion and hair dismorphia. All it lacked was David Attinborough, crouching beside him on the train floor, murmering: "... this adult male spends at least four hours every day preening and cultivating his head hair. Sadly, he is aware that his better days are behind him, and so arranges his sparse coat across his balding pate in a desperate attempt to intimidate younger males, impress females, and create an illusion of useful virility. The longer he can trick the pack, the longer he can stave off the day when the younger males will chase him onto the roof of Bumble & Fukwit Holdings, and shove him to his death."
I have been criticised by friends for plucking my eyebrows on the train. To them I say - hah! At least I don't preen my sad, sad, bald bonce.
posted by Elizabeth at 7:31 PM
1 Comments:
LOL. There should be a website for combovers like Mullets Galore for mullets.
Post a Comment
<< Home