It’s important isn’t it, in a developmental way, to nurture stuff in the early years. And then during the adolescent dance, the preening and pouting, the presentation of us in the best light, that’s good too, for gene selection. So if you want to get laid, comb your hair, brush your teeth and wash yourself. Keep doing this and you have chances in the gene pool, and since you don’t have anything by way of an idiosyncratic compensation, stick with it so that people will sit beside you in pubs, on buses and at work. I’m reminded of Billy Connolly hugging Michael Caine on one of the final Parkinson shows, and whispering that “there was a smell of piss from him”. Look there are no two ways about it, look after you.
But what if that bitch, that motherfucker Mother Nature conspires against you and your best efforts at the presentation thing. Or worse, when she conspires with a younger generation to point and giggle behind their hands, and when you turn to face them, they tell how fresh you look for a man of your age.
I miss my fucking hair and have done since that day in the shower, that evening when I avoided what it is that most men have showers for, that same evening I bade goodbye to the first of my lost tresses. For tresses is what I had, luxuriant and lustrous, and curly too, so very fucking curly as many very fucking girls had whispered to me. And there are photographs of my tresses, and like Picasso I too had a mysterious blue, a dark navy blue period, which so suited my shouldered tresses.
And there must be a legitimate lament, a Pegeen-Mike Celtic hag, misty-eyed lament suitably suited to my lost coiffure. And have I mentioned that I still miss it, still reach up with four fingers to push and lift it, settle it remembering how well it looks that way, or when I’m on my bike, I miss it’s wispiness as it flicked my ears or flickered across my sight. And those barber visits to a multi-generational male domain, Victors and Hornets and the red tops we never got at home, I miss those too for I will not pay €20 for a “number wan”, when I can do it myself with a €16 Argos machine. Soon, very soon, when winter has pushed me back from it’s bountiful table at which I have supped well, and when I slim down a little, it will be a “number nought” for my river tanned pate.
Since March 12th 2007, near enough to one year folks, that same bitch who took my hair has been tugging at my teeth, and this one in particular as I tongue right now the latest dental McIvor patch. And I am not complaining, so not complaining, because not too long ago a butcher turned orthodontist’s hands shook so much that he couldn’t smoke the Major he needed to sooth his nerves, as the blood ran down my chin and his pliers held half the stubborn tooth.
But yes, since last March an angel from above, a dental genius has been sent down to save this final, left sided and upper molar whose three brothers have long since been causalities in an unjust war with Coke and sweets and sugar and spice and all things nice. And there will be financial reparations, oil for teeth already lost, needed to pay the projected salvage cost of my final upper left Private Ryan molar. And even after loosing half of it to a pea-nut, we’re still trying, still re-building. To summarise folks, because there is a message here, albeit a lamentable one, even if you brush your teeth and hair, mothefucker nature will stick it to your vanity.