Today
Sunny days really keep my mood high up in the air. Today everybody has decided to dress pastel-coloured, so there's a sea of baby blues and pinks everywhere I look. Some of the dudes have prickly chest hairs creeping up the ultra-low V-necks and others are showing off their skinny limbs that poke out through the holes in their sleeveless pastel cerulean.
Yes, cerulean. I saw two people wearing it today. Just like the sky, cerulean. Or caeruleus in Latin.
Examining the row of flip flops on display, I watch as a lady carts away a huge rack of winter jumpers. Running like a psychotic towards the rack to check out if there were any 'bargains', I suddenly realise, upon closer examination, that they are women's trench coats. Quickly darting for the pastel printed tees on my left, I try to avoid the stares of giggling customer assistants in the shop who apparently must have found my antics good enough to laugh about.
Myer has begun to put up their spring window displays. Like the trend of this city, everything is in pastel. Designer cookware costing $0.30 a piece produced in some sweatshop in China being sold for $69. Shits made in Vietnam being sold 1000% the cost price. Nobody seems to be looking; everybody is too busy walking to wherever it is they want to go.
Today he's dressed in a multicoloured, striped singlet. He seats me opposite a mirror and gently coaxes the hair on my head to obey his delicate fingers. I tell him I've not been conditioning lately, and he sends out a slurry of tsk-tsk-tsk to express his disappointment.
Sprays of mist falling on my nose. I feel him gently massaging my hair and applying generous amounts of water onto it to make it nice and wet. Picking up a clipper, he massacres my hairline and side burns. I can't see anything; my glasses are on the table opposite me. I will just have to trust him.
What does one say to his hairdresser while getting his haircut? Does one converse about politics? Religion? Fashion? Current affairs? I find myself telling him about gastropods and marine protists that inhabit the shores of Gippsland. He is finding it amusing that I can take interest in such 'trivial' matters, and casually laughs it away while he tells me about Oprah Winfrey and some-fat-chick's boobjob-gone-wrong.
Snip snip snip. The scissors cuts away at the split ends in my hair. Next to me a middle aged woman is groaning because her hairdresser, Guy, is pulling away at her hair with a fine comb; she must feel very uncomfortable sitting in that narrow chair with ultra tight pantyhose that causes the fat in her calves to curl up into little mountains. Guy is slowly working away at the curls in her hair and trying to make sense of all the knots and tangles that are probably the result of some cheap hair product.
Tom is massages shampoo into my hair as I lie on the inclined chair. Some sort of fruity, lemony shampoo. I feel the warm water flowing down my scalp as he parts the hair and gives my forehead a little massage. Gently lifting my head and wiping off the excess water, he leads me back to my seat and gives it a nice blow-dry.
Wax to give my hair a bit of body, and a nice powdering on the neck to ease the discomfort from the prickly bits of hair that are lodged away in my shirt.
My head feels lighter now.
~
Two sets of teeth rasping away at the biscuits that are fed to it, oozing the buttery texture underlying the chocolate coating into my mouth. I've not felt this good in ages, sitting on my bed staring at some phase diagrams and bloody stereochemistry.
Resting my head on the pillow, I feel myself doze off to sleep, dropping a few crumbs onto my bed sheet as I crawl under the blanket and curl up against my soft goose down pillow.
Bliss.
Yes, cerulean. I saw two people wearing it today. Just like the sky, cerulean. Or caeruleus in Latin.
Examining the row of flip flops on display, I watch as a lady carts away a huge rack of winter jumpers. Running like a psychotic towards the rack to check out if there were any 'bargains', I suddenly realise, upon closer examination, that they are women's trench coats. Quickly darting for the pastel printed tees on my left, I try to avoid the stares of giggling customer assistants in the shop who apparently must have found my antics good enough to laugh about.
Myer has begun to put up their spring window displays. Like the trend of this city, everything is in pastel. Designer cookware costing $0.30 a piece produced in some sweatshop in China being sold for $69. Shits made in Vietnam being sold 1000% the cost price. Nobody seems to be looking; everybody is too busy walking to wherever it is they want to go.
Today he's dressed in a multicoloured, striped singlet. He seats me opposite a mirror and gently coaxes the hair on my head to obey his delicate fingers. I tell him I've not been conditioning lately, and he sends out a slurry of tsk-tsk-tsk to express his disappointment.
Sprays of mist falling on my nose. I feel him gently massaging my hair and applying generous amounts of water onto it to make it nice and wet. Picking up a clipper, he massacres my hairline and side burns. I can't see anything; my glasses are on the table opposite me. I will just have to trust him.
What does one say to his hairdresser while getting his haircut? Does one converse about politics? Religion? Fashion? Current affairs? I find myself telling him about gastropods and marine protists that inhabit the shores of Gippsland. He is finding it amusing that I can take interest in such 'trivial' matters, and casually laughs it away while he tells me about Oprah Winfrey and some-fat-chick's boobjob-gone-wrong.
Snip snip snip. The scissors cuts away at the split ends in my hair. Next to me a middle aged woman is groaning because her hairdresser, Guy, is pulling away at her hair with a fine comb; she must feel very uncomfortable sitting in that narrow chair with ultra tight pantyhose that causes the fat in her calves to curl up into little mountains. Guy is slowly working away at the curls in her hair and trying to make sense of all the knots and tangles that are probably the result of some cheap hair product.
Tom is massages shampoo into my hair as I lie on the inclined chair. Some sort of fruity, lemony shampoo. I feel the warm water flowing down my scalp as he parts the hair and gives my forehead a little massage. Gently lifting my head and wiping off the excess water, he leads me back to my seat and gives it a nice blow-dry.
Wax to give my hair a bit of body, and a nice powdering on the neck to ease the discomfort from the prickly bits of hair that are lodged away in my shirt.
My head feels lighter now.
~
Two sets of teeth rasping away at the biscuits that are fed to it, oozing the buttery texture underlying the chocolate coating into my mouth. I've not felt this good in ages, sitting on my bed staring at some phase diagrams and bloody stereochemistry.
Resting my head on the pillow, I feel myself doze off to sleep, dropping a few crumbs onto my bed sheet as I crawl under the blanket and curl up against my soft goose down pillow.
Bliss.
Fell from the sky at 4:18 AM
2 Comments:
hi there.. nice LOOOONNNGGG post.. :0
hv a nice day!
Hmm I don't think the post was long at all!
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