Long Hair

Usually, I don't really like long hair on men. I just never have. You know, the Fabio's of this world. In the past, it has stopped me hooking up with guys, oh you know, next. It always seemed so messy and, usually, wet when you are, you know, getting it on. I've been flicked in the eye, before, at the height of passion and it's not so nice, it's not sexy. Oh, get a hair cut is what I usually think. I generally like my men more masculine than long hair makes them. I don't know, it has just never done it for me.

Although, there have been some exceptions.

I remember beautiful smoking man, when I worked in Collins Street. Of course, he was exceptionally handsome and it probably wouldn't have mattered, actually, if his hair was short or long, or frizzy red. (Well?) I say probably, as I, of course, never saw him with short hair. But he was so handsome, I used to just gaze at him, as we both smoked our cigarettes out in pariah's lane.

I always wanted to say to him, "No, don't smoke. Don't do anything to spoil that perfect face."

Then there was beautiful Anton, with his bushy black hair, blue eyes and that smile, when I went to have dinner with Jill at our friend Rachel's restaurant. He and his sister Amy walked in at the end of our meal and sat with us. I mustn't have seen him in a while, although it didn't seem that long, I'm sure. Boy is he gorgeous. Is it wrong to look at a friend's sixteen year old son and think how beautiful he is? No, of course not. It's a compliment, if anything. I mean, I only thought it, I didn't say it. He'd have never have known.

Then there was that mechanic who used to work on my Renault. Black hair down to his shoulders and, more often than not, overalls unbuttoned down to his crotch, just so I could see the white elastic of his jocks. It was very distracting. And a French accent, which I always suspected was put on. Not sure why now? But it completed the picture, let me tell you.