My Hair

Last night I went to put a couple of logs in the fire, it being winter n all and my ostentatious quiff got dipped in a puddle of melted wax by mistake. I now have little blebs of candle in my hair. Like brain sap.

Every time I try and remove a bleb I pull out a tuft of George Clooney salt and pepper gorgeousness. This not something a Z list celebrity like me likes to do.

“So. Go wash your hair Grebo!” says mirror mirror.

Go wash your own hair Kate Middleton.

If I put any kind of cleaning product in my hair I end up looking like that fuzz that gets caught in the rollers of vacuum cleaners.

And so I am stuck with this puddly birds nest. I’m thinking I should shave it all off. Or twist the strands into a wick. Light them. And float down Bristol Harbour like a Zen lantern, my light flickering across the faces of the drunks and the pasta eyed poets.

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