Saturday 3rd April 2021
I dream of him constantly these days, the one I desire above all other men, including the two I live with. I picture him in my mind’s eye and fantasise about seeing him in the street. I imagine running towards him, calling his name and then taking him in my arms, offering him money, drugs, my body, if only he’d cut my fucking hair there and then! The man in question is of course flirty Jay, the guy who cuts my hair, or used to cut it when we lived in normal pre-covid times. FFS! A year on and we’re still battling a virus that shows no signs of sodding off any time soon. I know I’m shallow for carping about my barnet when so much serious hurt and misery is still raging across the world. But for the love of god, my hair hasn’t been cut since before Christmas. I’m beginning to resemble that cartoon character from the nineties, Johnny Bravo. Believe me, it isn’t a good look for me. Dick has offered to give me a trim, but there’s no way I’m letting him loose on my locks with a pair of scissors. I’ll end up looking like something out of a gay boy borstal porno film. I’ll just have to hang on until the glorious 12th (of April) when the hair chop shops are allowed to open again. I’ve got my appointment booked and nothing will keep me from attending.
Anyway, dear diary, I haven’t just dropped in to moan, though I might add that it’s frigging freezing here in Blighty, more like winter than spring. It’s another lockdown Easter and I thought I’d show willing by posting a greeting just in case any fluff bunnies still hop along this barren way.
I dream of him constantly these days, the one I desire above all other men, including the two I live with. I picture him in my mind’s eye and fantasise about seeing him in the street. I imagine running towards him, calling his name and then taking him in my arms, offering him money, drugs, my body, if only he’d cut my fucking hair there and then! The man in question is of course flirty Jay, the guy who cuts my hair, or used to cut it when we lived in normal pre-covid times. FFS! A year on and we’re still battling a virus that shows no signs of sodding off any time soon. I know I’m shallow for carping about my barnet when so much serious hurt and misery is still raging across the world. But for the love of god, my hair hasn’t been cut since before Christmas. I’m beginning to resemble that cartoon character from the nineties, Johnny Bravo. Believe me, it isn’t a good look for me. Dick has offered to give me a trim, but there’s no way I’m letting him loose on my locks with a pair of scissors. I’ll end up looking like something out of a gay boy borstal porno film. I’ll just have to hang on until the glorious 12th (of April) when the hair chop shops are allowed to open again. I’ve got my appointment booked and nothing will keep me from attending.
Anyway, dear diary, I haven’t just dropped in to moan, though I might add that it’s frigging freezing here in Blighty, more like winter than spring. It’s another lockdown Easter and I thought I’d show willing by posting a greeting just in case any fluff bunnies still hop along this barren way.
As ever, be safe, people. I hope you are well and can find some comfort and joy in this season of hope. Thanks to those of you who have sent me recent greetings. You are most kind. Ta-ta for now.
