The Cannon Blasted Ugly Duckling Slathered in Slutty Makeup

Post CLVI

Here’s the story of bottom, hair, and monkeys.

I have a very oddly shaped head, rather bumpy, so a trip to the barbers is potentially a bloodbath. One of the many great reasons I have such delightfully long hair. But it’s gotten a tad too long, so I’ve had to get it trimmed somewhat. As a man, you do question the size of your testicles as you sit at the sink in the salon, in agony as your neck is bent into unusual proportions. You get urges to spit and piss up a wall. What do the men whom pass by the busy shopping centre window think? ‘I bet he doesn’t work down a coal mine’. Why would I? I’d get dirt under my fingernails. Cue furious ball scratching. That’s the thing. All women say ‘it’s what’s on the inside that counts’, which is true, but in a heartbeat, they’ll say ‘but he must look after himself’. Which tells me they’re hypocrites, because on some level, they do care about what you look like. But it does lead to a top tip fellas. If she shouts at you for cutting your hair without consulting her, do point out the ‘on the inside’ thing. Her head will explode in a gooey mess of confused logic. She’ll feel like arguing, but being a woman, she’ll take the high ground and walk away. Top tip. Really works, guys.

And there’s something else that’s always frustrated me. She complains about your haircut but you can’t complain about hers. “And why was I not consulted about this new change of style?” Erm, because you’re not my mother. What, are you ashamed, worried that my shitty hairstyle will embarrass you in front of your mates? Well, I tell you what, love, get new mates or how about this, something I’m sure you’ve never heard of before otherwise you wouldn’t be bringing all this up. It’s what on the inside that counts. You know what, if I dated a girl whose father was a total upright proper old-fashioned conservative, and I was invited over for dinner and told to get a haircut by the missus, which is fair enough, I’d genuinely turn up with a Mohican cut. Just to prove a point.

Imagine if the same happened with her. But societal conventions dictate I have to be nice. It’s the same old story, readers. ‘“Am I fat?” “Nope.” “Do you like my new haircut?” “Yes.” “I’m thinking of having a sex change – thoughts?” “I will support you in any decision you take and furthermore I’d like to add that I love you.” No room for a debate, is there? “Do you like my new haircut?” “No, you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.”

And consult? Most women want a partner to ‘consult’ them before a haircut. What? You see, this is why I’ve never been in a relationship. It wouldn’t last two minutes. “OH MY GOD! YOU GOT YOUR HAIR CUT! WHY WAS I NOT INFORMED?” “Erm, well, because I’m a big boy and I don’t need you tell me what to do, it’s my life and unless a decision affects us both, you don’t have any right to butt in, and furthermore – where are you going?” I don’t care. Still maintain I’m right.

I don’t have a problem. I’ve always been comfortable visiting the salon. I like it. The hair washing part is really relaxing. But you still can’t shake fears of masculinity away, even though I know it’s utter nonsense, and I don’t believe in it, every man, even if it’s only for a few seconds, gets those feelings. I like my new hairstyle. Something different. I always saw myself as the ugly duckling that has been fired out of a cannon into a solid concrete wall, but now I feel like somebody has picked up that barely moving carcass and slapped on some slutty makeup. It’s a start, is my point.

I do wonder if women have the sink neck problems, or if I’m just a wimp. It really hurts your neck. You have a huge reclining chair, and they tip it all the way back, until your neck is resting on the edge of a sink. And then your head flops backwards into said sink. And you’re there for a good 15 minutes, with nothing to look at but bright lights above. I had blood taken this week. That hurt less.

Of course, women go through much that isn’t pleasant and they don’t complain, so I shall attempt to do the male of the species justice and match the females by not complaining, either. Any more.

I had my blood taken as part of the ongoing ‘Coughgate’ scandal, rendering me so crippled last week I wasn’t able to post anything. Actually, that was food poisoning, on top of my super-cough, which I still have. I always said I wouldn’t go to the doctors until I was on the verge of death. Honestly, it got to the point whereby I was so crippled from the coughing, I couldn’t even get out of bed. So I decided to go to the doctors, you’ll be pleased to hear. On the morning of said doctor visit, I got food poising, a day I spent throwing up and rushing to the loo every five minutes. I still have it, although it’s going. Very slowly. Like a grandparent after Christmas.

The doctor didn’t find anything but sent me for bloods and an X-ray. Nothing on them, either. So here I am. Week six of super-cough hell. If any doctors are reading, can you please ring my doctor and tell her to GIVE ME SOME BLOODY ANTIBIOTICS! I’M DYING HERE!

On the plus side, if I do die, at least I’ll die with a magnificent do.

Bruised arm, and bottom, hurt ribs and a violent cough. I’m really starting to worry I won’t be better in time for my birthday in a few weeks. And I really wanted to go and see that new monkey movie. And I won’t be able to if I’m still coughing. And that’s when you know life has hit rock bottom. When fate is keeping you apart from a monkey show.

I don’t know what I’m gonna do, readers. But I missed you last week and I’m sure I’ll be okay. In a few months. Or years. Or never. Probably. But I’m Italian. And if we are gonna go down, we go down fighting. Or switch sides in an attempt to survive.

But one thing is for sure, I’m a cannon blasted ugly duckling slathered in slutty makeup. And that’s a pretty special thing to be.

An interviewer once said to American musician, bandleader, songwriter, composer, recording engineer, record producer and film director, Frank Vincent Zappa (1940-1993), “So Frank, you have long hair. Does that make you a woman?” To which Zappa replied, “You have a wooden leg. Does that make you a table?”

Peace Out :|:


I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.


Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post

Hark Around the Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here to Read the Latest Post


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