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Wet Traditions at the Barber: a review of LadyJane's Haircuts for Men photo

“There was, throughout the great valley of the Mississippi, from the eighteen-eighties up to the Great War, the most complete denial of aesthetic sensibility that has probably ever been known…What really crushed it was the rise of the parvenu spirit during the great exploitative period following the Civil War, and the enthronement then of the ideals and practices of the go-getter above all other human interests. The psychology of the parvenu is destructive of the appreciation of the qualities of things. His is a quantitative mind. He is intent on expansion rather than on the cultivation and preservation of the value in things. Things–all things–are, for his kind, merely instruments extending areas of control and promoting his wealth and power. Aesthetic values cannot survive when the particular pragmatism of the parvenu is socially dominant.” – Thomas Hart Benton


Lady Jane’s Haircuts for Men bustled onto commercial airwaves circa 2000-fuck-who-cares, hyped by a squat, three-foot-tall, yipping, red-faced sports dynamo, clit-cheeked, part-hamburger, part spray-tan, platinum-bush, blonde worse than whites can tame, squawking to be curbed, snorkeling flatscreens, pompous, self-fellating cunt who, newspapers foretell, stores gum in the anus of a puppy to keep his hairdo spiked, propagating a mighty faux-hetero sheen, selling manhood by the clip, yuppie leather chairs and toned-down Hooters gals blowjobbing the shears for tips, the best kind of human plastic any society will win you, every asshole that wants to succeed under one roof, hustling the same schema, industry clambake of skeletons dyed under the drapes with piss, cattle skanks born with the fucking tweets already ricocheting between their bangs, dilated blackberry pupils, chirping mismatched inflections, collecting the miniscule wicked awesome louse-hairs of men balled into a question mark up their cervix, drone-struck walls, vaginally preemptive, connected directly to opinionated cocksuck esophagi, hooted at by half-assed, politely compensated, education geeks doing a fedora-bedecked cha cha about the Marvel Universe, the proud and arrogant men left alive today, wail of slug salt to the frenulum, busybodies chiming in metrosexual wonderment, and Buffalo Wild Wings frat bro corpse-muscled future husbands swilling slingshot pud along their curlicues – this country with its TATTLETALE CULTUE AND GROTESQUE UNEARNED BLOCK BY BLOCK INDIVIDUAL SENSE OF ROYALTY, not that any country fucking works, has found a way to make simple upkeep whore its goddamn theme. The integrity (non-existent concept) of a haircut has tripped into the gladdest part of its port-a-potty, returned chemically sound, motherfucker of the establishment, sporting HiDef, where this owner with his universal radio honky Biff or Bradley voice coughs a perpetual tampon behind his face and you’re supposed to address it your appointment, lost in the privilege, one relents to fear, sucking the haze off a penny. The general consensus in the lobby was to go outright decretive when we fuck. There is no method by which I’ll end up physically attractive. Just sprinkle some fucking sawdust on my dumpy mane and call the police, will you? Then my ex-girlfriend’s here, sharing cake. And her picture’s on the cake, tippling orally. Well, who isn’t part totem and laughing directly at me? Now maim us for breathing and party on. I can outfuck whatever’s missed and pretty – dead or alive. I fuck uglier than my misinformed birth can top. Smegmatize anyone’s grave with their chore of having had to touch me. Blow my nose in the waitress or whoever’s hair. She uses stripper heels to tug mine into a spiffy, pseudo metallically asymmetrical manufacture-ready semi-indifferent bed head. They also flop me down some tribal tattoos underscored with the cursive of local ads. “The flowers on this dress ain’t planning a survival ‘neath the border, son.” Suffice to splay. Shouldn’t you be spending your early twenties ruining lives by thinking you can love anything? Shouldn’t you be the direct cause of a cancerous amount of precum somewhere? And cool about it? Beyond the aesthetics that sold you? Discussing the work ethic of your daycare in the vestibule of a salon? Won’t your unlimited amount of options and social ease just make the cocksucking hair fall the fuck free from my weakly scrotal posture? Paint me some beadie beads flanked by warring colostomies, you clacking ninny I can somehow order by profile. If I present my tongue, will you count the preservatives therein? Using your most special HPV? This bitch is not down with her impermanence. A lady doesn’t need makeup unless it’s the war paint she’s putting on to end me. And whereby’s my easy fucking order of? You got the tools handy. If I brave a haircut, I aim to be a victim that day. “I maintain the nards,” she informs me. Please, Jane, forever shall they stoop?