Befriending your double chins January 10, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
B. refers to an excellent photographic service – they accept paypal – that can turn you, or rather, your children, into someone else for not even a fistful of dollars. Now I quite like the idea of being someone else, and wouldn’t mind having someone else’s face and body photoshopped permanently onto mine, but damn homosexuality and the concomitant lack of children which means I can’t even try it out on them first. I might adopt especially.
I subjected myself to the six-weekly torture of a haircut this morning. As ever, I’d been putting it off. I walked past my old ladies of choice – I’ve blogged them at least 90 times before – the other day but it was the younger of the two on duty and I prefer to get the properly old, barely vertical, terminally tipsy one. Today I gritted my teeth and went for another walk-past. I struck lucky and went in and took a pew.
She was engaged with an older gentleman when I arrived. He was having the standard cut but went for a supplementary head massage, which I thought was awfully modern of him. The tiny hairdresser – she has to hoist herself up on a high-chair when manipulating talk folk’s crowns – massaged a glob of some gel or other into his head. They chatted away nicely.
I got a good view of the man as he got up to pay. I surveyed his frame carefully, making mental notes of what physical fate held in store for me. Presumably the gent had shrunk quite a lot in his dotage. But he still had generous shoulders and was sprier than I. The waist of his trousers began just below his shoulder-blades and then his bottom and hips billowed outwards before billowing back in shortly above the knee. All in all, he looked slightly like a rubbery neck, the rubberiest skin of which has been pulled outwards as far as it will go. He paid his huge bill – cock knows (as the Russians say) what she massaged into his skull – and went on his way.
I took up my place and grunted my wishes. Just as she was about to begin, the old lady remembered she’d forgotten to take a swig of Dutch courage and quickly went round the back, unscrewed the cap of whatever her poison was, knocked it back and returned to my locks. I bravely managed to enunciate the desired millimetre-setting of the shavey thing – she smiled her agreement – and got down to staring at myself.
My face looked more like a pink splat than a face. Should anyone ever forget their compass when in my company and desperately need to draw a perfect circle, my splat would provide the ideal template. Of course this is the standard yearly state of affairs, with roundness peaking shortly after the Christmas festivities, before, hopefully, a less geometrically quantifiable mould resumes service at some point in the spring. Luckily, my old lady was so tipsy that I didn’t have to hide my efforts at contorting myself into beauty in the mirror. I sucked in my cheeks and breathed in at the same time but that only left me looking Munchian. I screwed up my eyes to make myself look more seductive but still looked more Marty than Marky. I made short-lived, empty promises to myself that, at the age of 36, I would consider darkening the door of a gym for the first time in my life.
But fuck that shit, I admitted to myself, honestly, moments later. I have weights lying around here, after all, and can normally be bothered to pick those up about once a decade. I am never going to be a sporty type. Befriend those double chins, BiB. And so I settled into some decontortion. I gave my chins free rein. They wobbled slightly before relaxing at gravity’s behest and the perfect pink circle appeared once more. I breathed back out and allowed the thing velcroed round my neck to sit more tautly on my frame. Far less of the old lady and the trinkets adorning her premises were now on view in the mirror.
She flashed the mirror round the back of my head for me to nod my approval. I didn’t pay any attention to the hair but counted the number of ripples in my tattooless neck. Three. I paid the tiny bill – I had a voucher for a reduction which I tendered sheepishly – and went on my way, resolving to go for a pinkening, roundening beer this evening before gorgeousness gets a chance to settle back in in the spring.