Papier Mache

Changing ones-self

Papier-mâché

I bought a coat on my own today. For the first time. I’m 29 years old. Its badly fitted, too tight around the shoulders - and I can’t even fit my meagre belongings in the pockets. Apparently this is the look single individuals should be going for. Personally i’m not sure if the visible outline of my inhaler is an attractive look or not. To my mind potential mates typically don’t consider respiratory problems a sign of reproductive prowess, although I might be wrong. Perhaps a whispered wheeze of sweet nothings is the laypersons version of a Hollywood husk, and the interruption of a sunset stroll with an aerosol hiss speaks of romance.

Perhaps not.

For this reason I also persuaded my local hair groomers to cut back my burgeoning mane. I liked to think that my rough and ready style spoke of the mountains. That the slight aroma of moss and bark in my hair ignited a carnal desire to metaphorically roll in the hay, or that the windswept tangles conjured images of a solitary (but heroic) life at sea. All of these things I felt that the fairer sex would see reflected, radiating from my look and from my steely gaze.

Apparently I looked like a tramp.

So I thought to my piratey mountaineering tramp self, I should go opposite. I shall swap the salty bark look for something in keeping with the modern aspirational youth. Gone are the desires to court a captain of the oceans or a jungle treading wayfarer. Instead they are replaced with the glare of high definition humans on a Saturday night.

So I took my picture of Gary Barlow to the hairdressers, and said, “hark, you harlots of hair” (or something similar), “make me look like this fine young rapscallion, so that the courtesans may swoon”. They told me to take my coat off, sit down, and talk properly. I acquiesced to all of their reasonable requests and settled back to meditate on the potential of what my coiffeur may create.

And what did they create? They created a replica of what I requested upon my head. They had succeeded in turning me into a miniature Gary Barlow (after-all, he is a giant amongst men). My coiffeur then proceeded to tell me I would need to invest in a comb if I was to continue in my new lifestyle. I agreed and purchased an instrument there and then " pleased to be making progress towards being Gary Barlow.

But as I struggled into my overly tight coat, and walked home with my comb in my hand (i can’t fit both an inhaler and a comb in my pocket), a realization dawned; a hollow gnawing which threatened to swallow my new hair and ridiculous over-garment. I was a husk. Not in the sense that the aforementioned Hollywood actor might husk, but in the sense of a shell. I was empty. My clothes, hair, and very skin, draped over a metallic mesh. Devoid of feelings. A Gary Barlow mask on a 29 year old man living in a terraced house in a small town.

And this papier-mâché human made me feel more lonely than I have ever felt before. 

Reviews

[loom]

Thank you for the responses. Any response is welcome.

[Marie]

I don't know if this is funny or not...apparently this young man tried too haard not to be himself and succeeded...

[Michael Stevens]

This was funnier than a rubber crutch in a windstorm---err--never mind! Truly, this was extremely clever (speaking as one who finds putting myself down is always good for a laugh---err---USUALLY good for a laugh!) and well-written dealo!