The man with the obvious wig, like a clichéd helmet of hair that my eyes were drawn to immediately, was sitting opposite me. What was he thinking when he looked in the mirror this morning, that nobody would notice? It looked ridiculous and I couldn't help blurring my eyes to see what he would have looked like without it. I wondered if he put it on like a bike rider would put his bike helmet on, one swift easy action. (clip under the neck?) It didn't even have a part just a join where the thatching met before heading off in opposite directions in two, big, mono-coloured sweeps around each side of his head.
He looked kind of sad sitting there, looking out from underneath it. Sad and obstinate in his age defying gesture, like a man sitting there with, something like, an ice cream cone up ended on the top of his head that nobody is supposed to notice.
The man next to him had shinny, coal black, hair, goatee and sleepy puppy dog eyes looking out from under his fetching droopy eye lids. He stared expressionless out of the tram window at the morning. Such a perfect study of fine male features; a straight jaw line, clear blemish free olive skin, black eyebrows like his hair, red lips with a perfectly shaped (the thing between your lip and nose) underneath a perfectly straight nose. All captured in a momentary snap shot, perfectly still and oblivious to my gaze.
Politicise my morning with your dark expressionless look; beauty captured perfectly still, encapsulating every little boy’s journey into manhood.
Don’t scare me, wig man, I shan't look at you. Don’t show me my destiny, however many decades it might be away.
The ages of man.
Before – dark-haired beauty.
After – bewigged decay.
The essence of men, like a still life, a study, a life drawing in front of me to view, to distract me, to attract my attention, to repel me, as I mindlessly trundle up Bourke Street, early for work.
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