Hair: 5-Minute Freewrite Challenge
It's Tuesday freewrite again. I woke up with good sleep actually and I am now ready to do the 5-Minute Freewrite Challenge which was organized by @mariannewest. Today's prompt is "Hair". Sounds easy but let's see how can I make this one.
I sat down in the chair and turned on the music. The DJ has played Hair by Little Mix and Sean Paul. Not a fan of that song so I changed the radio station. However, the song in the other radio station is "Whip My Hair" by Willow Smith, the daughter of actor and rapper Will Smith. I am not a fan of that song either so I turned off the radio.
I turned on TV and switched to channel to HBO. The movie is "Hairspray". Oh, I remember that movie about 10 years ago which made Nikki Blonsky a star. Other big stars are there too like John Travolta and Michelle Pfeiffer. And guess what? Zac Efron is there too, and that was during peak of High School Musical.
I wonder what's with the hair? The songs being played was about hair. Then the movie on TV is "Hairspray". Well, it upsets me because I am having hair problems. I think I gotta deal with it before it worsens, and I get bald.
That's it! I am done with this hair thing. I had written this using http://www.themostdangerouswritingapp.com/write.html. It is an app where you type and has timer. If you stopped typing in few seconds, it will delete what you already written.
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You should have input Hair-y Potter Lol just kidding I'm so corny hahaha
lol:)
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thei hair is so nice I wish I have a long hair to try like that but my father will angry if see one of his son has long hair lol
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I miss u friend. This morning, I whipped my hair back and forth2x! ♡♡♡
nice post
please upvote & comment my post.
@osman28
Beach hair ;) Good one, Iyan!
All that hair!!! Congrats on the nice upvote you got on this one!!! I know you already saw todays :)sleep well.
Hair Elite
When I was in my 20's (the 80's) I always went to a hip salon - you know those one's with the high end interior design, music so loud you'd swear you were clubbing, full of the sloe-eyed too-cool-to-register-you looks, where there's a confusion of extra people walking around with wine and tea hands on hips with appraising eyes on the cutter and cuttee like some glitterati posse - an entourage d'coiffeurre with the staying power to ooh and aah every last lock to the shiny stage floor.
The first few times that I screwed up enough self-confidence to enter and step up to the maitre-de-salon I felt so out of place, a clown at a funeral, I would swear that the music playing throughout abruptly did a cheech and chong "Hey, that's my record man!" replacing the beyond edg the disco - technico with a shocking silence and was replaced with "Oh... my... God! Who let that in?" and just as abruptly the hole in the room closed itself and it was as if it had never occurred at all leaving me unsure as to which was worse, the scrutiny or the verdict as I stood, invisible and blushing under the glaring cruel spotlight waiting against hope for one of the dozens of way chill bitches to unplug from their grabass glam program long enough to acknowledge me, the clueless social abberation now frozen and marooned front and center at the podium.
The hipster unlucky enough to draw the short curly one languidly approaches me, a friendly twinkle in the eye and a half smile which I return gratefully before I suddenly realize that the goodwill is intended, not for me, rather it is directed at mall janitor or security guard who happens to be passing the salon on the sidewalk leaving me with mortified and frozen yet again..." my neck turns to ice, my stomach crawling about the heaving seas of my humility like a live maine lobster desperately scrambling to escape the boiling heat before it becomes leftovers, expecting imminently to be deemed grist that they can flip into the maw of the opinionator as a side show to their communion with the "ones who matter". Finding myself cast in a role of depravity I drill the still approaching hostess with a confident and (hopefully) charming expression. She with her"it's showtime!"-fosse eyes fix me like a straight pin does a bug specimen and I mark the crisp unwordly eyebrows morphing into a boy-george exclamation which all but scream the soundless question: "What the fuck do you want?"
The first dozen or so times I was told that the chairs were booked solid for weeks and would I like to reserve one for later next month and if I somehow passed that first line of geek protection the pricing always iced my genitalia but good for wasting their time and pulling them away from the party in miss or himself's hair on chair where-to-be-scene.
On a collapse of a finish to this reminisence, I can only add that once I was wealthy, healthy and confident enough to lower my own cheeks into the 15 minute zone o' fame I discovered that the cut, the money, even good looks didn't help. The hair elite can spot me from a mile away. Always have done. Always will do.
Cunts all.
I don't give a shit where I get my hair cut as long as it stays out of my eyes and keeps the unwanted eyes off of me!
@yombo!