Wednesday, April 20, 2005


He has a dozen or so strands of hair but he goes to see his daughter the hair-dresser every month. Her fingers are sharp and ugly. He calls her "Sylvia Scissorhands".

"Okay. let's see some of that magic Sylvia Scissorhands. How about whipping up all my hair into an afro. Or maybe just a good old-fashioned pompadour."

She stares at his face in the mirror that stands in front of them. It is crisscrossed with age and anger. In her mind's eye, she steps back and the mirror comes crashing down on his head.

"But seriously, I think that if this here mirror fell down on me right now the shards of glass would probably do a better job of cutting my hair than you on your best of days," he says scrunching up the wrinkles on his face until he resembles a giant anus.

"Yeah well I guess you're always the one to look on the bright side, aren't you ?" She thinks of the time after her rabbit died, that he bought her a cookbook which included a recipe for Buckinghamshire Rabbit Pie. She remembers using one of the recipes to destroy one of her dad's favorite ties.

"You gotta stay positive. That old expression says it best: you can't cook a tie with a recipe for a rabbit." He stares at her searching for some trace of understanding. He cannot believe that she has never once considered the fact that her father might be blessed with telepathy.

She starts snipping away at his hairs with flustered fingers.

He started off with little jabs and jokes but when the weeks that she spend dumbfounded by his comments turned into years, his anticipation turned to anger.

He just wants her to get it.

Get it ?


Post a Comment

<< Home