How i became a hairdresser.

A breeze comes though the gap from that damn window, which never seems to close properly and as the elements enter into our quiet existence I roll over to see the woman that I have shared the last five years with and who I no longer recognize. It’s hasn’t always been like this there was a time where she was my world and I spent my life orbiting around her. But somewhere along the way I got lost, spun out of control deep in space miles from home. Its not that I don’t love her I guess I’m just comfortable and quite frankly bored of the whole situation. I find myself looking at and pursuing other women, which in my profession is like taking money from a cripple.

Three years ago I joined the noble ranks of the hairdressing fraternity, out of a fear that I become another miserable schoolteacher. I was twenty-three coming to the enviable climax of a useless fine arts degree with my only options to either wipe my ass with it or to enter a career of teaching stupid teenagers and on top of that teaching them art, come on. I remember the art classes at school the only reason students even enrolled was because it impossible to fail and it always felt like an extended recess.

Now looking back it wasn’t even my decision, I remember being incredibly stoned watching one of stupid reality television shows; you know the ones where a bunch flamboyant homosexuals storm into your house and cut the sleeves of you favorite shirt and insist that you shave your beard with some sort of miracle balm. Well anyway it got to the point, when they drag the unsuspecting man to get his fabulous new hairstyle and what do I say, “ I bet you I could cut hair, I have a fine arts degree” like the arrogant fuck I am.  Two days later I come home from another stimulating day at university and when I say university I probably meant say the pub. Stumbling through the door I am greeted by that upturned smile she has plastered across her face, then she goes ahead to explain that I have job interview at hair salon. The cheeky bitch applied for the job behind my back and three years later I’m still there.

I lay there watching the breeze gently blowing each strand of her hair into a different contortion of its original design. She slowly opens her eyes and lifts her head to reveal the drool from the night before and we wonder why love is not forever. I get up and clumsily make movements in two different ways towards the toilet. I sit there enjoying my early morning purge, as she wails from the other room about the fantastical dream she had and them precedes to enter the bathroom to remove a blood stain tampon that has been fermenting over the night, which she casually place into the bin. That’s when you know you’re in a relationship, when personal space is extends to the grotesque.

 The rest of the morning goes as usual, we put on our disguises and enter the world as the success young couple that the society expects of us. Give each other a quick peck on the cheek and then make our way to the opposite sides of town to participate in the joys of being an adult, work. Why didn’t anyone tell me that life was going to be like this if I were told about this natural progression I would have done something about it. I don’t know, I would have prolonged my studies, done as many courses that my government subsidy would have provided and become an academic sleeping with all young female students so that I would give them good grades.

Well it could be worse instead of being surrounded by beautiful young girls and frisky old women. I could have been another corporate stooge surrounded by cubicles and water coolers, besides I am really good at what I do. Some years ago I discovered the secret to being a good hairdresser its not how good you are at doing hair, its your ability flirt and charm the pants of people. Its like going to a bar everyday to chat up women except in this case the women come to you and pay you for the service. You might be giving them a great hairstyle, but you are really servicing their egos and showing them what its like to be a real woman, not the meals on wheels that their husbands make them out to be. 

Untitled

Everyday is a constant fight, as the sun beckons me to wake I find myself twisting and turning to find any amount of shadow to shroud me from its light. I would give my soul for just ten minutes alone to live another life that exists in my mind, but unable to fight I admit defeat to embrace a life of mediocrity and shame. How did it get to this point where I choose to sleep over living a life that I used to love, which I used to hold on to with all my might. But as every year passes another candle goes out with the promise of a better life and someone new to love.

I am always looking for that sublime moment of either joy or misery, as the middle ground feels like nothing to me, when I’m not in love I feel like a blank slate, a boat in the ocean miles from land. But as love takes hold I start to feel alive, as if an artist is working that stone into something greater than its parts. The only problem in living like this is that I’m still I’m love with all women of my past. Every stale relationship, incidental encounter and passionate affair still bares a scare on my heart, a wound which will never heal and as every broken heart piles on top of the last I’m starting to find it harder to breath.

As I am getting older and wiser I am beginning to understand why I live this life. There is something in my past that I choose to forget, some unbearable pain, a wound so deep, and an untouchable love that I have spent my life trying to obtain. 

I'm sorry...

Lying upstairs in a house that has become a second home to me, I find it hard to contain the emotions that ripple through my composed exterior. I lie there hoping for that one moment, which will clench the inevitable congress between these two lovers that hide behind the shadow of this so-called friendship. For reasons unknown, our lips never touch and our words fall short, even though our bodies echo another agenda. And as the rain falls, a tear forms in the corner of one eye, then recoils behind the inner membrane that houses the doorway to my shame.

She is my best friend, confidante and my ex lover: maybe this is why it all went wrong. The burden was too great.

Waking up with morning rant...

As if some undistinguishable force has drawn the curtain on our lonely city, the sun slowly filters its way across the walls of the high-rise buildings, through the alleys and streets of the lost and disenfranchised, eventually to land on the wall of my small house snuggled in the lonely corner of the inner west. The sun gradually comes to rest upon my fragile exterior and as my blood boils, my mind become active and I’m forced to enter my reality.

The act of waking up from a long sleep is as traumatic as the first breath that is taken, after those nine months of bliss, as I cough up the remanents of the two packets of cigarettes previously digested. It feels like my naissance into the world as I purge the amniotic fluid from my lungs. Disorientated and overcome, I clamber my way through the torrents of sheets that surround me, as if I am stranded in a sea of Egyptian cotton with no hope of rescue. I eventually manage to crawl my way to the end of the bed and place my feet on the soft shag pile carpet beneath me, as the nerve endings in the soles of my feet echo the texture of the surface below. My eyes slowly come in to focus to see the visage of a city, where trees have been replaced with telegraph poles and mountains have taken the form of the high-rise buildings that dominate the skyline.

I wrap the sheet around my lower half and make my way to the kitchen to find a sugary liquid to remove the red wine tannins that encrust my mouth. Entering the kitchen I am greeted by my flat mate, Rudolf, with whom I have cohabitated for the last year. Although we are complete opposites, we have developed a friendship of smoking cigarettes and telling dirty stories, which we find great hilarity in, as we are on opposite sides of the sexual spectrum. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread wafts through the house as we sit down and share the exploits of the night before.

I am always amazed at the frequency and quantity of sexual partners that gay men maintain with very little effort, with the attraction for the most part being totally aesthetic. You have to be fit, toned; muscular and beyond all that you must have a cock of unimaginable proportions. The shallower you are, the more likely you are to become an alpha male, as the biggest bitch usually has the largest cock.

Parting Of Ways...

Waking up in the arms of a lover as the sun makes it ascension into the sky, the light slowly filters its way through the blinds, casting an interlaced shadow that divides our lives. I lay there, one arm clenched tightly around her lower half, romanticising about a future that will never be. Trying to make sense of the situation in my head, I find it hard to form cohesive thoughts to justify an action that would lead to that inevitable path that we call a relationship. As the hours go by, falling in and out of sleep I find it hard to distinguish my reality. As my peace of mind turns to chaos, I decide to admit defeat and embrace a new day.

I release my hold on her fragile porcelain body and make my way to the kitchen to prepare vegemite toast and lady grey tea, which has become a morning ritual in the short time we have known each other. Entering the bedroom I notice her left eye slowly open and then recoil, as the corner of her mouth moves graceful into a half smile. The smell of toasted bread wafts closer to her and she opens her eyes. As she slowly becomes more animated I place the cup tea in her hands, parting her fringe to place a delicate kiss upon her forehead.

The morning passes like usual, but amid the toast, the tea and the passion something has changed. Deep down inside I know how the events will unfold: it’s not the first time we have been though this. I recall the last parting of ways and look for the signs, which I see instantly in her eyes. Finding the right opportunity, I brace myself and ask that question that no one wants to hear the corresponding answer, which is always the same.

I try to understand why I put myself though this time and time again- falling in love with people that could never reciprocate the same feelings. Always hoping they will eventually find a part of me they can’t live without, because there is always piece of them that is missing from me. I try to pick up the remanents of my heart that lays there lifeless on the floor and turn to her for some realisation: as she raises her head, our eyes lock as the tension becomes thick in the air. As I make that my last attempt at salvaging the situation.

To be continued...

The Rant.

Making my way through my apartment in to the communal corridors that insulate myself from the collective, I walk outside to bask in my own feeling of isolation to enjoy my final cigarette from the eternal pack of emptiness. As I draw back on the paper-lined cylinder of cancerous gases, I look up at the sky to see one of the last visible stars that is not cloaked by the smog that engulfs our lives.

As I take the final draw on the already extinguished cigarette I sit there watching the incandescent glow of an ember that is one puff away from oblivion, like the star that’s light has already diminished after its million-year journey to reach my eye. Reaching down to put out the remains of the cigarette, I look up to see a stilted figure taking clothes off the line, with every peg that falls into a an old tin can sending shivers through my spine.

Looking closer, a woman with short black hair that seems to blend into the night moves graceful from side to side, plucking the pegs off the line like apples in an orchard and placing them gently into the old can. Perching myself on the rail of the stairwell, I angle myself closer to see which number she chooses to inhabit. Edging myself closer, I see her disappear around the corner and out of sight.

Regaining my balance, I move back inside from the harsh realities of my environment. It's strange to think at one stage of our evolution we were at one with nature: living in it, sleeping in it and breathing it. All I seem to breathe these days is the polluted haze that falls over the city like a thick blanket from the industrial estate just out of town.

Although we live in this polluted state, we direct our attention away from the gas guzzling cars, the torrents of smog we inject into the atmosphere from the numerous industries that sustain our modern conditions, thus turning our eyes on to the individual- like we are the ones responsible for all the cancers, tumours and respiratory diseases that plague humanity. We smoke too much, drink, use mobile phones, microwave our food, sit too close to our televisions, eat processed food... and on it goes, placing the responsibility firmly in our own hands.

So if one day I do happen to get cancer, I won’t be able blame it on the multinational corporation, the gene-tech organization or the petrol syndicates; the responsibility will be with me because I smoked too much, enjoyed a drink and wanted to keep in touch with my friends and family. The irony is that the only thing that gets the filthy taste of the petrol-guzzling cars and the polluting factories out of my mouth is a crisp clean smoke of a cigarette, which furthers my predicament.

Sitting down feeling jaded by the injustice of it, I reach over to pour myself a stagnate crimson glass from a bottle of pinot that is sitting on my desk as the words fall out of my mouth: 'we're all fucked'.

Another Friday Night...

Sitting alone on another Friday evening, I feel the compulsion to enter into the night like the masses of people that pass my window every weekend. The inner drive to participate in these weekend rituals is a strong instinct, shared by our collective conciousness and compelling us to walk the street for that perfect experience or person, with most of us returning home feeling jaded by the whole experience. But as sure as the world keeps turning, they return home after another day in the grinder to apply their lipstick and foundation and return to the street searching for that unmistakable connection to a fellow human being.

I fight the instinctive drive and find solace in a bottle of Chevis Regal and the husky voice of Tom Waits playing on my laptop, which used to belong to an ex-lover that had long been forgotten. The recorded sound of the worn needle scratching against the contours of the vinyl surface seem in harmony with the stilted lyrics from the abused voice of a discontented bar fly on his last round of drinks. I pull my last cigarette out of the crumpled packet sitting on the side table next to a crystal glass where two ice cubes slowly dissolve, turning bold amber liquid into a translucent shadow of its former self. Taking a lighter out of my jacket pocket, I spark the end of the cigarette and watch the tobacco slowly ignite, creating a luminescent crimson glow. I draw back slowly, feeling all the nerves in my body pulse as the intoxicating smoke penetrates deep inside my fragile lungs.

As I take the last draw on the already expired cigarette an uneasy feeling falls over me, for I will need to replenish the empty packet on the side table before addictive properties of this cancerous cocktail overwhelm this discontented psyche. Regaining my balance, I take my wallet from an empty fish bowl that houses an assortment of objects found on my daily travels, pushing through the hard wood door which shelters me from the outside world, walking through the corridor and out into the night.

As I walk through the streets, passing small clusters of people trying to extricate themselves from there own lives, I keep my eyes to the ground to hide my drunken state and avoid any accidental interaction that could take place. Walking around the bend at the end of the street I enter the flickering lights of the 24hour convenience store. I stumble through the door trying to cover the four scotches previously digested; but upon reaching the counter I look into the clerks eyes and see my subterfuge has not gone as well as expected. I manage to mutter out a few legible words that the clerk easy translates out of years of experience into 2 packets Malboro lights. I retrieve my purchases and make a hasty retreat back to my small room.