trashing story, as it has become complicated by the need to deny any suicidal urges. This is not what I was looking for.
And coupled with badly broken sleep it makes today feel less real than usual. I rest my arms in my lap and my chin on my Felix the Cat T-shirt and I lean back in my chair and sleep fitfully for nearly an hour.
I meet Jeff for coffee. He laughs for quite a long time at the chaos that seems to have swept across me overnight, the random hair, the bandages, and he refers to my wounds as a characteristically pitiful gesture of selfharm.
It was Greg, I tell him. I think he was trying to effect a mercy killing.
And I have to tell him the whole story, including the other Greg and his obvious concerns for me.
The Night of Two Gregs , he says. What an evening of distinction. I think only you could have an evening like that .
Sometimes I surprise even myself. I think Iâve come up with the gold standard for crap and then, out of the blue, another personal best.
The Bradman of crap .
The Bradman of crap. I always knew there was something Bradmanesque about me. I just had to find my calling.
So does this mean youâre out of tennis tonight ?
Yeah. Yeah, I think it does. I think Iâd burst open and bleed and my friend the GP would probably take me for a breaker of promises and put me away.
My arms begin throbbing again in the hot sun on the way back to work. People watch me as I walk through the mall, watch me as though they are watching one of the mallâs resident mad people. They stare as I walk past, as though Iâm so mad I wonât even know, and I want to stop and say to them, Look, Iâm not mad, Iâm a legal counsel for a big bank youâve never heard of. And then I think, why does this make me any better than the mad people? Why should I want to be separated from them because Iâm going to an office now and not staying in the mall, finding my place in the shade and staring intently at passers by?
Back in the toilets at work I look in the mirror, and my hair is like the nest of a confused bird. I want to go into the mall again and explain to everyone that, supportive as I am of the resident mad people, I happen not to be one of them. I happen simply to have a temporary combing problem. But this, like all other stories, works its way back. Combing problem, forearm pain, trivial injury while flea bathing, grandmotherâs cat, grandmother dead, trashed. So Iâll just have to live with it.
My hair has never been easy, but usually its disarray has signalled nothing more than slackness, a windy day, a lost comb, a big night. And I can live with all of those. Itâs only today that Iâd like things to be a little different.
Automatic Hair
Some years ago, Jeff came up with the notion of Automatic Hair to describe the phenomenon occurring on his head. Automatic Hair changes for nothing, for no-one. Automatic Hair is impervious to outside influence. However treated or mistreated, however slept on, sweated through or swum in, his hair automatically assumes the position he thinks is a style. He says it responds well to washing but has no need of combing on a regular basis. And he thinks this is a good thing. He also thinks people as lucky as he is are very rare. He thinks he may be the first white person since Elvis to have Automatic Hair. He thinks Bronwyn Bishop would like us to think she has Automatic Hair, but you donât have to be an expert to know otherwise. And he cares not at all that, perhaps for the rest of his life, he will have the Automatic Hair of the 1980s.
Today I would happily settle for anything styleless, anything automatic, probably any hair other than the madness on my head. Any kind of hair at all that has no association with trashing.
I make myself another cup of coffee and talk to people in various countries about the Thai project, with the aim of achieving the delicate balance I have promised Hillary. And I talk to them like a man in
And coupled with badly broken sleep it makes today feel less real than usual. I rest my arms in my lap and my chin on my Felix the Cat T-shirt and I lean back in my chair and sleep fitfully for nearly an hour.
I meet Jeff for coffee. He laughs for quite a long time at the chaos that seems to have swept across me overnight, the random hair, the bandages, and he refers to my wounds as a characteristically pitiful gesture of selfharm.
It was Greg, I tell him. I think he was trying to effect a mercy killing.
And I have to tell him the whole story, including the other Greg and his obvious concerns for me.
The Night of Two Gregs , he says. What an evening of distinction. I think only you could have an evening like that .
Sometimes I surprise even myself. I think Iâve come up with the gold standard for crap and then, out of the blue, another personal best.
The Bradman of crap .
The Bradman of crap. I always knew there was something Bradmanesque about me. I just had to find my calling.
So does this mean youâre out of tennis tonight ?
Yeah. Yeah, I think it does. I think Iâd burst open and bleed and my friend the GP would probably take me for a breaker of promises and put me away.
My arms begin throbbing again in the hot sun on the way back to work. People watch me as I walk through the mall, watch me as though they are watching one of the mallâs resident mad people. They stare as I walk past, as though Iâm so mad I wonât even know, and I want to stop and say to them, Look, Iâm not mad, Iâm a legal counsel for a big bank youâve never heard of. And then I think, why does this make me any better than the mad people? Why should I want to be separated from them because Iâm going to an office now and not staying in the mall, finding my place in the shade and staring intently at passers by?
Back in the toilets at work I look in the mirror, and my hair is like the nest of a confused bird. I want to go into the mall again and explain to everyone that, supportive as I am of the resident mad people, I happen not to be one of them. I happen simply to have a temporary combing problem. But this, like all other stories, works its way back. Combing problem, forearm pain, trivial injury while flea bathing, grandmotherâs cat, grandmother dead, trashed. So Iâll just have to live with it.
My hair has never been easy, but usually its disarray has signalled nothing more than slackness, a windy day, a lost comb, a big night. And I can live with all of those. Itâs only today that Iâd like things to be a little different.
Automatic Hair
Some years ago, Jeff came up with the notion of Automatic Hair to describe the phenomenon occurring on his head. Automatic Hair changes for nothing, for no-one. Automatic Hair is impervious to outside influence. However treated or mistreated, however slept on, sweated through or swum in, his hair automatically assumes the position he thinks is a style. He says it responds well to washing but has no need of combing on a regular basis. And he thinks this is a good thing. He also thinks people as lucky as he is are very rare. He thinks he may be the first white person since Elvis to have Automatic Hair. He thinks Bronwyn Bishop would like us to think she has Automatic Hair, but you donât have to be an expert to know otherwise. And he cares not at all that, perhaps for the rest of his life, he will have the Automatic Hair of the 1980s.
Today I would happily settle for anything styleless, anything automatic, probably any hair other than the madness on my head. Any kind of hair at all that has no association with trashing.
I make myself another cup of coffee and talk to people in various countries about the Thai project, with the aim of achieving the delicate balance I have promised Hillary. And I talk to them like a man in
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