Make ready your hair

Why am I sitting around praying for enough electromagnetic magic to watch some hokey French thriller -- when, for example, I could listen to a certain song for the thirtieth time?

I have seen strange lesbians in suits. Lesbians who sing long phrases made of notes whole and even longer.

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I do not understand how you have managed to have all portraits taken on fairy film. Where are your flaws? Your bizarre blondness and bright teeth defy the reality of apes. Which makes you to some extent hideous -- likewise your friends with puffs of curly hair sticking out from home-designed hats.

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I have wondered about the time it takes to make ready your hair.

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Also: six times six the boyfriends have worried about their hairs, and now it is immortalized in a talky.

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Seriously, please tell me what is going on in this mid-European country! Are artistic moles required by law? Asymmetrical hairstyles?

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All right. I get it. You are young. Ornament is what you do. There is a fabulous life of well-placed silverware and glass walls. Let it not be conceived that one of you might be named something so boring as Chris Jones!

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Sad is that I can see the imperfections from this distance. For example, your teeth are not as white as his, and he does not yet have your crow's feet. You have more pictures of him than he of you.

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What if you were not gay but simply some strange mishaps of self-beautification? (I reminded a friend that we were mutants of a bio-curious nature. Our laws are likewise mutinous.)

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In better parts of the mind: coffee, coconut prawns, assorted TVs, windy trees outside windows, even the Simpsons, even an angry stapler, a secret adventure with relatives, dogs and fireworks, and of course those special moments, flowers on a table, and my arms wide with baby talk.