The last half an hour prior to the appointment I could almost hear the mourning bells of St. Sepulchres church. Clutching my imaginary gallows speech I took myself along from the east to the west along Holborn, St Giles, and the Tyburn Road, perhaps having one final pint prior to stepping up on to the gallows, and having my hair washed by 16 stone tart called Sharron in the windows of Tony’s the unisex hairdresser round the corner from my office.
We’d already gone through the preliminary ‘what do you want’ bit when they pointlessly sit you in a chair and, standing behind you so you can see them in the mirror, froth your hair up a bit looking like they really give a fucking shit. Sharron performed this part very badly, I thought. When I told her what I wanted she responded, terrifyingly, with a ‘why would you do that, then.’ I should’ve thrust a pair of scissors into her head and legged it, but I didn’t. I stayed.
Wordlessly Sharron began to work on my barnet, her pendulous breasts smacking against my shoulder and her WKD and chip sodden gunt rubbing against my arm. Every time she moved her giant gold earrings, at least 3 in each fleshy lughole, would clatter together like marbles being dropped on terracotta. I watched vast swatches of my hair flying off as she got down and dirty with my cows lick, I could feel the cold steel of the scissors way too high up the back of my neck. I thought I may be sick.
After a tortuous 45 mins an apparition of my former self made itself known to me. ‘You’ve finished?’ I said staring at Moe Midgely. ’22 quid’ said Sharron.
So, there you have it. I made the decision to do this thing to myself, what possessed me yesterday to undertake this act of personality defiance, I’m a person who likes to listen to the metal of the lords, the punk of kings, yet here I am telling the word that I love Chico and buggery. In the past, on these very pages, I’ve spoken of Sigmund Freud standing up in a railway carriage and not recognising himself in an adjacent mirror for a split second, he calls this ‘lost’ moment the uncanny, it’s the model for surrealism. Its not pleasant walking about ones home getting the fucking fear of Lucifer everytime one happens to glance into a mirror. Waking up this morning and seeing myself for the first time, expecting to see my usual self was like a scream of such enormous volume it was the personification of total silence. I nearly passed out from the stress of being subject to such a violent episode of displacement.
In short, I look like an utter, utter cunt.
I need this, you need this so you don’t take the same path as I.