7th Jan - Make-up for Men

It's been a hectic 24 hours, to be honest! My second viewing of The Prince of Egypt was somewhat interrupted by an army of school children sat in amongst our chosen section of seating (school trips have come on leaps and bounds since 'my day'... Back then, it was an afternoon at a local Science museum, not tickets in the Stalls to a West-End musical!). Though the show itself was, predictably, astounding (yet again), a cacophony of munching from said-teens pierced various silences of dramatic tension. Will the Pharoah Ramesses free his Hebrew slaves? Find out, after this spotty bag of hormones sat next to me rustles his way through his 3rd Kinder Bueno in as many minutes. Having said that, his selection was infinitely more wise than that of the youth to my right, who exchanged her Dr. Pepper for the delight of 4 Cheesestrings with the girl sat next to her... Perhaps the most shrewd swap deal since Chelsea allowed William Gallas as the makeweight in their pursuit of Ashley Cole. Quite why this brunette was stockpiling the cheddar-based snack in such a way remains a mystery to me (perhaps her parents run a wholesalers), but as her pal noisily slurped on the cherry-flavoured beverage, the girl in question - who was presumably diary intolerant - bolted off to the rest-rooms during the interval to loudly declare that she was set to replicate the muddy conditions of the River Nile in the Dominion Theatre's porcelain. 

Whilst strolling past another group of children (this time, much younger, I'd guess in the 6-7 year-old ballpark) in the foyer, the nation's most expensive Religious Studies field trip continued, as one child loudly mused: "I don't understand why, in the play, they cut the babies, and red ribbons came out? Ribbons don't live inside babies." It was a valid point, and one I was tempted to stick around for, as the flustered teacher looked bemused at how to best explain that slitting the throats of real-life human infants and allowing real blood to spray across the faces of aghast onlookers in Rows A-F might be frowned upon a tad. Meanwhile, in amongst 'the snack crew', a greasy lad with a broad Brummie accent, boldly boasted to his pals about how he 'fell asleep' during the first act, and 'didn't understand it'. Perhaps Molly Mae was right, maybe we do all get the same 24 hours in a day. And Jack Grealish 2.0 was spending all 24 of his as a thick cunt. 

Alas, today was to prove a new day, and a day when I'd indulge myself in a fresh haircut. The first thing I must inform you of, at this point, is how my local barbers is filled with a variety of the most ghastly men on earth. During my last visit, the barber in question spent at least 40 minutes of the experience explaining to me why COVID is a 'hoax', how the Police keep 'targeting' him with fines (completely unrelated, in his opinion, to how regularly he admitted to hitting speeds of up to 90mph in front of a variety of watching speed-cameras), and why "women are good for nothing, except pussy." Yes yes, ladies and gents, roll up, roll up... And welcome to the UK's most toxically masculine new theme-park, Misogyny Land. Regardless of the somewhat questionable moral ethics of these chaps, they're well-versed in Turkish trims, and tidy my beard to the point where my partner frequently remarks on how handsome I am (I think I'm dating Stevie Wonder) when I return home from said-trips to Chauvinist City.

With this in mind, I was willing to play the role of the poor women who end up underneath these barbers on a Friday night, and fake it for 40 minutes, as I nodded along to today's tales... Which included how my hairdresser had stayed up until 7am on Christmas morning after an all-night cocaine, cannabis, and poker binge on Xmas Eve. "I fell asleep when my kids were opening their presents" he chuckled. I can only hope Daddy didn't get the wrappings wrong, and little Charlie opened big Charlie. But today's punchline was yet to occur, when Dr. Chlamydia & his chums informed me the card-reader was 'broken' (about as bust as the McDonalds ice-cream machine, one suspects), and I'd need to go get cash out instead. What occurred in the next 5 minutes or so was a comedy or errors worthy of any Mr. Bean episode, as the local ATM proved it swallows, never spits, and gobbled up my card, refusing to give it (or my notes) back, despite charging me for the pleasure of doing so. I marched back into the HQ of 'cheeky Nandos' and sub-standard fingering techniques - with full Karen-mode activated - and suggested they give up their money laundering facade, and allow me to use Apple Pay on their till, on account of my recent VISA-related trauma. Surprise, surprise, as if by magic, it suddenly 'started working' again. Oh my, what a coincidence. 

However, when I returned home, my partner did indeed remark on my new-found good-looks caused by said trim, and we concluded that whilst women possess a variety of weapons in their arsenal to enhance their physical appearance (hair-straightening, fake-tan, make-up, cosmetic procedures, lingerie, jewellery, etc), the tools available to us fellas are in somewhat short supply. Therefore, a haircut IS make-up for men... 

Unless, like myself, you spend your boring Saturdays allowing your girl to transform you into a Drag Queen...