Friday, 24 August 2012

Crops & Bobbers, Nikki Minaj and why "White Guys Can't Wear Weave".

Dear Tanika,
It is with much regret and a badly burned scalp that I find myself writing this letter to you.
Last Wednesday I visited your salon "Crops & Bobbers" for my regular "Cut, Blow & Go" (£12.99 including tea and a French Fancy).
I arrived at your establishment well before my allotted 10am appointment time and was greeted by your "receptionist" Kylie (the one with the top knot and the lopsided scowl).
Except I wasn't exactly greeted because Kylie was more interested in applying neon green starfish to her hot pink nails and chewing gum than dealing with a paying customer; without so much as a "Hello! Who are you? Do you have an appointment and can I condition your split ends Sir?" she gestured with her finger (her middle one I should add) that I should sit down in the leatherette massage chair with "Tanika" etched into the back with gold studs.
(I should point out that your I and your A are missing).
I also noticed that your "massage chair" is actually the passenger seat from a Ford Ka. It may have a leopard print headrest but it has no massage capabilities what so ever.

I am most upset that I had to wait for half an hour until you finally decided to show up and without ceremony or an apology dumped an Iceland carrier bag at your station and told me to "stay in your seat, I've just got to go and wash me feet".
You know very well that I do not like being left in front of the mirror witnessing Trevor the Junior fiddling with his perming rods.
In hindsight it was at this point I should have just left the salon but I had a very important job interview that afternoon which I needed to look my best for.

I am now left one week later, both jobless and hairless and I hold you entirely responsible.

After washing your feet (for which you gave me no explanation except for a convoluted story involving a frozen chicken, a false accusation and your being chased by a store detective) you then proceeded to persuade me into having the "£50 Weave & Leave" deal.
Although mindful of my time constraints I finally agreed that yes, I could do a with a new look and enhanced body to my "feels and looks like candy floss" hair (those were your words, not mine).
Little did I know of the mockery and intense pain I have had to endure since.

Tanika, can you please explain to me how you thought you could bond a half head of hair extensions to my scalp with only a tube of crazy glue and a hot wand? Also, why, when we had agreed before Trevor even washed my hair that the colour I should go for was "Ebony Moon" and not "Nikki Minaj Pink" that you proceeded to make my fringe look more colourful than an explosion in a firework factory?
I now have to put up with daily renditions of "Super Bass" being screamed at me by people I don't know or even care to know.
I don't even know what a "Boom, Badoom, Boom Bass" is?
I also take great offence at having Trevor thrusting his crotch at me whilst he fingered my split ends. If I wanted to feel a piercing rubbing against me I'd have whispered in his ear.

As you well know, I didn't make it to my job interview as I was still bent over your back basin at 5.30pm whilst you tried to untangle the tangle teaser you'd managed to attach to my scalp. No matter what you say, a "Tangle Teaser" is meant to tease, not rip hair from it's roots. I found it most upsetting when Kylie invited the rest of the clients over to the basin to take photographs with their smart phones.
I like to look nice in photographs but I don't think the acrylic hair version of "Joseph & His Technicolour Hairdo" is really my best look.
I also did not appreciate your laughing and saying "white guys can't wear weave" whilst pointing at my inflamed scalp.
Not only was that hurtful and judgemental, it's also racially abusive.

Tanika, I am hoping we can come to some form of agreement and you will fulfil the "Hair Repair" promise you made to me when I left the salon. I agree the conditioner that Trevor used called "Coconut Moon" did smell delicious but I do not see why I was charged for the full 2 litre bottle upon my leaving? I know you said it will sooth the burns but I feel you should have at least given that to me for the inconvenience.
I hope once I have at least a half inch of regrowth you will see good your promise to have me back to your salon for a full day of luxury pampering.
I have a particular interest in your "Real Mud of the Thames" facial and the "Hairy Toe No More" pedicure that you offer as part of your "Sit Back & Spa Day".
I am sure that between yourself, Kylie and Trevor you will make the utmost effort to welcome me back as your most loyal and longstanding victim ( I mean customer).

Kind Regards,
Daniel.

P.S I appreciate you lending me your earmuffs as it was very cold outside and the plasters you'd attached to the weeping sores on my head did little to protect my scalp.

P.P.S I am owed a tea and a French Fancy.





Sunday, 12 August 2012

I'm really sorry for getting so drunk and ruining your party (which I'm coming to next week).

Dear Barbara and Colin (Babs & Col),
Thank you so much for inviting me to your housewarming last week.
Firstly, I'd like to once again, welcome you to the neighbourhood but also apologise for my terrible behaviour and offer some explanation as to how things got so out of hand.
I've tried calling your house but the phone either rings and rings or someone (who sounds an awful lot like you Barbara) picks it up and screams a barrage of obscenities at me.
I know it's you Babs because of the dropped vowels and the smokers cough.
I'm just surprised at some of the filthy words you use.
Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

I understand that you're both upset but all I want to do is apologise and offer some form of repayment for the terrible fire damage that happened to your curtains and also see if your pet rabbit is recovering OK?
I don't know how I got so out of control and why I took my clothes off but I'm hoping this letter will make some amends and you'll drop the court case against me.
It was very embarrassing for me to be dragged down your front pathway in a straight jacket, muzzle and shackles. Hopefully you will understand the damage this has done to my reputation within the community?
 I've managed to convince some of the neighbours that it was actually a fancy dress party and I was in character as Hannibal Lecter so I hope you will find it within yourself not to tell them the truth?
They also believe the fire engine, sniffer dogs and helicopter circling overhead were part of the party so please don't spoil their fun.

Although I know some of my behaviour was a little crazy, I  think you should take some responsibility for why the evening turned out the way it did.
Colin, you said to me "mi casa su casa" and because I'm fluent in Spanish I was only embracing that sentiment and Babs, you did encourage everybody to "eat, drink and be merry".
I was only following your instructions and guidelines.
I just forgot about the eating part. 
Too much drink on an empty stomach would make anyone want to vomit. 
I'm just sorry I happened to do it on your granddaughters beautiful blonde ringlets and new party dress. 
Also, I know you didn't appreciate me saying I was only reenacting my favourite scene from "The Exorcist" but I was just trying to stop her from crying.

I shouldn't have smacked her either, sorry about that.

I don't think you can really blame me for pushing Mrs Henderson out of her wheelchair so that I could have a seat because by that point I had exhausted myself dancing and she'd been sitting down all evening. I don't think she's as sick as she pretends to be anyway and yes, I know you hadn't provided any type of music but once I have a few Sambucas I start to hear music wherever I am.
I also know you didn't provide the Sambuca. 
It was actually my house gift to you and if you would only accept my apologies I will buy you another bottle and replace all the shot glasses I smashed.

Finally, please accept my sincere apologies for what happened to Bunty. I know it was very wrong of me to get so drunk that I actually thought your hallway mirror was a portal to another universe and try to smash my way through it. 
I know it was also very irresponsible of me to let Bunty loose out of his pen when there was so much smashed glass around but I was just trying to take your granddaughters mind off of the vomiting incident.
I do feel however, that there is an upside to every story and we should all be thankful for small mercies. A smashed mirror may bring you seven years of bad luck but at least you now have a lucky rabbits foot to carry around with you (and Bunty will learn to hop just as well with three legs).

By now, you're obviously both aware that I can't hand deliver this note because of the injunction you have against me. I think it stipulates that I must stay 500 ft away from you and not even go near a sniff of alcohol for a three month period.
This injunction makes it difficult for me to replace the two antique candelabras that I fashioned a Lady GaGa type headdress from.
I think you said they were family heirlooms? 
Well, now they are family hair ornaments.

Once again, please accept my sincerest apologies,
Your dearest neighbour & friend,
Daniel.

P.S Colin, I forgot to apologise for pulling off your toupee and throwing it across the room whilst screaming "watch out everybody, it's a flying cat".

P.P.S Babs, did you eat the Pavlova I made? It's delicious isn't it? It's my mothers recipe. 
If you've finished with the tupperware I'd like that rinsed out and returned.


Friday, 3 August 2012

A Sexual Drought, Rihanna, Viagra, The Shard and Mahatma Gandhi.

I've been experiencing a bit of a drought lately. I'm like a tourist destination that doesn't get any tourists anymore.
A bit like Margate or Iraq, only with a better frontage and a lot less dangerous.
It's not that I'm run down or war torn. I'm just feeling a bit "take it or leave it" when it comes to stroking it and feeling it. I'm hoping that sometimes we all need to step away from fornication to know what the fornication we should be doing with our lives.
Sex can be a bit of a distraction can't it?
Whether you doing it, watching it, planning it or screwing it, it takes time and effort and I've never been a Wham! Bam! Thank you man kind of guy.
I can't just drop my trousers at the drop of a hat.
I don't even wear a hat.
But I did used to really like Wham.

The odd thing is that I work so hard to make myself sexually attractive. I spend hours in the gym. I fret about every grey hair and then I fret about losing every grey hair. I wonder does my bulge look big in this when I know my bum looks big in that.
I cleanse, I tone and I moisturise. I exfoliate and I scrub and I've even been known to fake it and bake it.
But what's the use?
Who's it for?
Sometimes I'll look in the mirror and I'll think "mmm, not bad for an Oompa Loompa. Charlie & his Chocolate Factory would be proud" and then I go straight to the fridge and eat some chocolate.
Other times I'll stand in front of the mirror and I'll think "Umm, not bad if you were in a pub, under soft lighting and someone was as drunk as a teenager at a keg party" and then I'll go straight to the fridge and pour myself a gin and juice.
Then there are the times when I look at myself in the mirror and I think "wow, you actually look half decent. Someone is definitely going to want to undress and caress you".
And then I go straight to the fridge. I eat some chocolate, I pour myself a gin and a juice and I put on my pyjamas.
I literally cannot be arsed with going out and trying to get arsed.

I know sex is supposed to recreational but how I feel about it at the moment is exactly how I used to feel about the playing fields behind my mums house when I was growing up. They were called "recreational grounds" - but we used to call them "The Rec".
Mostly because they were overgrown, dangerous and full of burned out cars.
I'm not overgrown. I can be dangerous and I have been burned out but sexually?
I'm just a wreck.
The only person I'm prepared to take my clothes off in front of is my doctor and the strangest thing is, whenever I go to see him, he finds a reason for me to undress and lay on his couch.
I went to see him a couple of weeks ago because I had a sore throat and he asked me to undress so he could look at my chest?
"But doctor, I want you to look down my throat?"
Doctors are like mechanics, you should never question them. You have a problem with your engine but the mechanic wants to look in your boot (trunk for all my American readers)?
Let him.
You have a problem with your throat but your doctor insists on looking up your arse?
Report him.
My doctor is the furthest from my ideal of a "Dr Love" anyway. He looks like Mahatma Gandhi in a bri- nylon suit but it's worth the flirt and the feel up because I want him to stamp my prescription.
I'll do anything to up my meds.

I know I've strayed from original theme of the blog which was sexual expression, sexual repression and sexual transmission but that's my problem.
I can't keep my mind on sex, even when I'm doing it.
Something always gets in the way.
A household bill, a deadline, a ringing phone, a knock on the door, world peace, world debt, the ups and downs of life, did Chris Brown really hit Rihanna? Is Rihanna a lesbian? Why do lesbians like cats?
And there it is. . .
What was once so up, just came crashing down.

I've even tried recreational drugs for sex ( I know you're now thinking, the wreck has tried recreational drugs over the recreational ground behind his mums house) but nothing really works.
Viagra worked but it made me go bright red and gave me a headache. You can't imagine how frustrating it is to have to say "not tonight darling, I've got a headache" when you could pull down your pants and bash a thousand tent pegs into the ground.
Do not mix Viagra and booze either, you'll go to bed with a boner and a headache and wake up with just the headache.
If your partner's that desperate to see a mammoth erection, take them up The Shard.
I actually got spiked with rohypnol when I was about 19. It speaks volumes about the guy that did it but it says a lot more about me when he told me  "I put a roofie in your drink about an hour ago", and I was just about to start doing high kicks across the dance floor. I've always had the stamina to be up all night, just not when it comes to the bedroom.
Sex and drugs will never mix!
(and the same applies for sex & rugs, especially if they are animal hair and dry clean only).

Enjoying sex is all about freeing your mind and I guess I'm never really totally free.
I still have thoughts that it's dirty, it's wrong, it's not right and it's not OK and that troubles me . .  .
But then when I really think about it I realise it should be dirty, it should be wrong and if it's not right then it's definitely OK isn't it?
Maybe I need a little help?
Maybe I need a guiding hand?
Maybe I should go and see a sexual therapist?
I just don't know what I'd do if I arrived at his office and said "Doctor, I really need to talk to you about sex" only for him to reply:

"That's fine Mr Warner, now take off your clothes and lay down on that couch" . . . . . .