Dear diary,
It’s day 250 billion of the human strangles epidemic, and while there continues to be light at the end of the tunnel, for many of us that light has turned out to be the headtorch worn by our scissor wielding psychopathic stylists, seconds before our manes were massacred.
After sharing my horrid hairdressing horror at the hands of Emily Scissorhands last week, I have seen and been sent so many examples of bouffant butchery that I am seriously considering starting a social media campaign to remind people that mane mutilation is a crime. Lockdown or no lockdown, there’s no excuse for operating under the delusion that you’re Nicky Clarke and taking out your sick fantasy on us poor equines because anyone else in your house runs if you so much as glance at any cutting implement. Just remember, this will be over one day and you’re going to be wanting to go out competing and the like — you might be getting huge entertainment for splashing our Dwayne Dibbleys all over SEU on Facebook, however remember, karma comes in many forms, but all of them hurt when your p*ssed off pruned partner weighs over 500kg…
On a slightly more positive note, my Cleopatra fringe has allowed me to actually view the world more effectively (I can see clearly now the hair has gone, I can see all obstacles in my way… and you can thank me for that ear worm later…), so I can confirm that I have been allowed out into a section of field which is minorly large than a mole on a knats bottoms. Certainly (if we’re using bottoms as a measure) not anything resembling mother’s expansive ass (but then Asia is only a smidge larger), but bigger than I’ve been allowed of late. This has meant that I can now get at least to a decent speed on a small sized circle when re-enacting Evel Kneivel’s wall of death stunt, which I first tried the other day when it had been snowing heavily, just to see if I could turn the boss lady so white Olaf would have had her as a pin-up. It was fair to say she wasn’t amused and went all snitchy McSnitch face on me to mother, who was a lot more robustly “not amused” — once again proving her vocabulary is as impressive as it is basic in its meaning; in summary my unmarried parents may have actually called me Richard, I am missing out in a career in banking, apparently do a lot of ducking and have a descriptor which means girl parts in other countries. I’m guessing she wasn’t pleased…
I don’t understand to be honest why she’s so cross with me. I’ve been trying, I really have. I know (because after being on the receiving end of one of her tirades enough times even Steve Wonder would see her point) that my front two legs are pretty much uninsurable — as is one of my eyes and apparently the excess empty gap between my ears — so therefore, I am working on becoming a bi-ped. I have discovered I am rather good at it and it in turns leaves my front legs free to wave to all my fans or direct inbound aircraft (good to have career options in case financial services doesn’t work out). Apparently discovering this new skill at the grand old age of 18 and ¾ is not something that has filled mother with admiration (although apparently the Spanish riding school have expressed an interest), and she has been heard loudly praying that if the day ever comes when she and I can be mounted once more, that this is not a skill I demonstrate while she is astride. To be fair, with her backside on board, getting two feet off the floor would win me a role in Wicked! — I’d definitely be defying gravity…
The good news is, despite having more uninsurable parts than a 1970s Ford Cortina, there’s nothing wrong with my teeth, as a visit from Evil Army Man this week confirmed. Not only do I stoically stand still while he wafts a Black and Decker around my molars, I also have perfect gnashers, unlike mother, who seems to permanently grinding her back teeth to dust.
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Those of you who have followed me from the start will remember that EAM used to also be mother’s instructor before he realised that horses with a gag in their mouth were a lot easier way to earn money than hysterical females who wet themselves over a trotting pole. He and I have always seen eye to eye on most things — my approach to jumping, mother’s inability to find anything resembling the right stride, the fact that my talent was wasted on someone who couldn’t ride one side of a rocking horse and the importance of good oral hygiene. Just because my mother has a potty mouth doesn’t mean to say I do.
I’m just hoping the dazzling reflection from my shiny pearly whites blinds anyone to my frightful fringe at least long enough for it to grown out, otherwise, yet again the only thing I will be pulling this spring is a muscle.
Laters,
Still less-hirsute Hovis
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