My lovely, bear, hairdresser put smelly goop in my hair at the end of the haircut. Splosh, splosh, just like that. And then he sprayed me with cologne. Squirt. Squirt. Yuk. WTF? Why? Shouldn't he ask first, before he does that?
Funny how I just sit passively and say nothing. He can't even see me cringe. Silent as a mouse.
He's never done that before? I think someone must have told him to upmarket the service. Oo! I stank all night. Pppff! Shake of the head. Sam told me to go and have a shower, as I smelt like a bedouin brothel.
My hairdresser still touches me gently with his fat fingers, like he is massaging my skin, or testing to see how I feel, or just enjoying the thrill of skin on skin. I still find the way he touches me so gently to be kind of erotic, when I close my eyes and it is all I can feel, his finger tips, my skin. I'm sure he has a "quiet thing" for me. I reckon, he does, you can sense such things, don't you think? The energy is different.
A fat Arab boy... who is kind of sexy in a fat, cute way. He is. I reckon he'd look like Homer Simpson in his Y-fronts. Adorable. I like him. He has a nice smile and a really gentle way about him.
I checked myself out in the shop window as soon as I left the shop. Smith Street pulsed gently under the weight of footpath diners eating and drinking and smoking and laughing. Trams rattled and "ding dinged", and the deros asked for money,
"Got any change, bro?"
I gazed in the shop windows, at my reflection, adjusting my t-shirt with a flex of my shoulders... and smiling, tugging at my fringe gently.
A gentle afternoon, I think. I love this, wandering around the shops just when I feel like it, nothing to do in particular, except to please myself. Free as a bird.
Then it strikes me again. Wow! Is this sustainable? This life of mine? Will there be a price to pay for this one day? Maybe? Shrug. Who cares.
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