The Emperors New Complex.

Fashion’s weird, isn’t it? I’ve almost certainly blogged about something like this before, in fact I’ve definitely done a video, but it is, isn’t it? It’s weird. I only bring it up because I went to get a haircut today and, indeed, had it. Ordinarily, I’d wander in and mumble something about just making it look shorter and neater and look fear-struck when confronted with questions about what grade I wanted the sides or what I was up to. Not today though dear reader. Today I had an actual predetermined ‘style’ in mind, a particular cut for on top of said mind, and I’d brought along a bloody photo on my phone and everything. Angrier, shittier, young me would have wet himself laughing at the mere idea and then ridiculed me for months. Current me didn’t do that. He looked at himself in the mirror, experienced the mandatory moment of going ‘well that’s not what I asked fo- oh no, that’s my face. Yep, haircut’s good’ and went home.
On the way home he (I) began wondering who’d crack wise first. I (he) will get some remarks that, at best, could be described as ‘cunty’. The sort of look-at-him-with-his-haircut-what-a-self-conscious-prick kind. And, y’know, fair enough I suppose. But why the hell am I concerning myself with it, why on earth do they care and who, in the name of all that is good and pure, made us? Because I’d like a word. Specifically, ‘Bastard’. Or ‘Bitch’, Modern Man here. The whole thing’s confused me – the choosing of the cut, the reason I’d feel the desire to, external forces, the concept of Image – it’s a game that hands you the rules and then alters them, constantly, but only through the medium of interpretive mime and quite often when you’re not looking. Like me, I imagine you dislike people who judge others on their appearance and I’m fairly comfortable saying that because I dislike myself often. So why do we all do it?!
It’s not like it’s even a game you can win. That group of effortlessly cool slivers hanging outside I Don’t Ink So? Well, their mums think they look like twats. Or whoever. Doesn’t matter. Not everyone thinks they look groovy or banging or whatever the kids are saying, that’s the take-away, and yet still we sculpt a something from our form that is only for others eyes. The really worrying bit is how much is sub-conscious, how much of my styling and choosing, my appearance and self delivery, is driven by a deeply engrained, unknowable belief? Like, who am I really washing for? It makes me wonder about how my spawn will be secretly shaped by how other people see. Loads, probably. It’s not just clothes and hair either, there’s gadgets and games, mattresses and menus – everything is a Fashion. Ok, except maybe mattresses. I’ve got nothing revelatory to say on the subject, as must be blindingly obvious by now, but it’d be nice if we were all less bothered, wouldn’t it?

You could put jam in your hair and decorate it with glitter and chocolate sprinkles. You could wear jogging bottoms all the time and that pillow case you always thought would look good as a tiny cape. You’d be able to skip to wherever you were going, probably somewhere bloody fantastic, and sing whatever you wanted to yourself with gay abandon. You could say ‘with gay abandon’. You could change your glasses or shave for once. All without having to worry that any one single person or group was sniggering and saying something like ‘Uh, jam?! Hello?! Like, never heard of honey? Loser!’. All the chocolate sprinkles in the world won’t stop me from wondering, though, as I go about my business tomorrow, ‘why did I choose and then care’ and, ‘I hope everyone likes it’.

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