bow down mister

since childhood, i have been subject to mengelesque experiments.

from "hong kong" to "shue lin"'s door
all the people know the score
if you want it botched some more
please say hair eh! hair eh!

steps,'shroom cuts, no holds bar
look like diana from afar
closer up its mithunda, ringo starr
please say hair eh hair eh!

these days i'm sporting the 80s aussie serial look. after all, everyone needs good nigh burrs.

the aftermath! you walk out pretending life is not over. your hair has been fried with a drier that leaves you with a bouffant and half the city with no electricity. friends, relatives and bumbling puppies that embarrass easily avoid looking you in the eye. strong men wince and hide their valuables. some try to brazen it out by asking breezily, "oh, did you have a haircut?" you snarl at them, they run away, being careful not to trip over their own gorgeous tresses. and there's the primitive tribes that ritually greet you by slapping you hard on the back of the head and yelling "judi-arse!" dame dench appears on the scene and in arctic accents asks what their bluddy problem is.

what is a fit punishment for a hairdresser who ruins your hair? should she be hoist by her own petard, figuratively speaking? "gimme those scissors, the brush and those hundreds of clever clips. i'll give you a blunt like you'll never forget"
(maniacal laughter in the background)

and please, let's drop that whole chinese illusion once and for all. she is as chinese as gobi manchurian. call the place may shue, provide patrons with taiwanese magazines featuring hairdos incredibly innappropriate for indian hair and xie ha min's your uncle.

i would rant more, but jason and kylie are waiting..