Monday, July 11, 2011

Astral Travels As My Hair Unravels

According to my Time Line of Inevitable Rot and Decay, by now I should be sprouting tufts of hair from each ear sufficient to repopulate the barren scalp of a Rooney, a John, or an “of Cambridge”.

Quite why appendages aurodynamically designed to guide sound waves down funnels to the brain suddenly invite upon themselves these swathes of fluff at the exact same time the mechanisms of the inner ear begin to falter, I have no idea — I didn’t make up any of the rules governing evolution, genetics or the need to repeat things over and over to people with twinned rugs strapped to the sides of their heads.

Me? I’m just the Single Wispy Ear Hair Guy. I don’t tend to flag this up by wearing either a monogrammed T shirt or name badge, but that’s nonetheless who I am.

Most of the time it’s almost impossible to distinguish my ears from those of a new-born baby. All that softness, that freshness, you’ve never known before: that’s the loving touch of my folliculoure.

Catch me later on in the hair cycle and, if you look very closely, you’ll see a tiny filament sprouting from the cusp of my lobe like an invisible miniature piglet had become stuck inside my lughole looking for truffles, leaving only its coily tail exposed to the atmosphere.

If it weren’t for Girly of Whirly and her miracle tweezers, there’s every possibility I might forget about it completely — for months, years, decades — only to discover it trailing along behind me like a pulled thread on a Shakespearean arras.

Later today, she’ll lay me down on the Plucking Couch — probably between peeling the potatoes for tea and incinerating some hapless door-to-door salesman with the ferocity of her dragon breath — and gently prise my near-invisible strand of hair from me till the Plucking Suite echoes with a microwave-style ping.

Maybe I should collect them all and mount them, or knot them into a small winter hat for the Whirl Towers Blackbird. After all, people have framed their navel hair and hung pictures from coiled toenails before (I remember: there was a pull-out supplement once with the News of the World).

Over the course of five or ten years, maybe I’d have enough fine silvery hairs for a pair of false eyelashes or a moth brush.

I could weave a rope so the homonculus inside my head could get out and use the toilet from time to time.

Hmmm, not sure.

Any suggestions?


fairyhedgehog said...

Tweezers? For ear hair? Ouch! What happened to razors, scissors or secateurs?

Whirlochre said...

They got destroyed while being sharpened on the dwarven forge...

Miss Scarlet said...

I have a white hair in one of my eye-brows. I'm too fascinated to pluck.

stacy said...

Seems to be an ear-related theme for me today.

Whirlochre said...

That hair is the equivalent of the fuse bulb on a set of Christmas lights. Pluck it, and your brian will explode.

Your ear is certainly curiously absent from your avatar...