"I LOVE YOU MOM AND DAD"
BY: TRASHFORCE REAPER (NOT ME)
“You know that I love you, dear, but when you come to see us this time, could you not look so…strange?â€
(Having to spend time with my parents in a public place is always problematic as f***, not least because they are completely and utterly ashamed of how I look, and make no bones about telling me this every time I speak to them.)
“Last time you came back, you looked like someone who would be slumped outside a cafe in an old Hells Angels picture…â€
“Thanks, I try.â€
“…and it’s just…weird. I’m not asking for the world, you know. Just for you to not wear too much leather this time. Nothing…dead. Nothing too short. And just try not to wear anything strange on your t-shirt. And don’t make your hair enormous.â€
“Mm.â€
“It’s not that your father and I don’t love you just the way you are.â€
“I know.â€
“It’s just that other people might think the way you are is a bit…odd. You know?â€
“It’s becoming pretty obvious that if I’m still planning on dyeing my hair navy blue, I’m going to have to either keep putting it off until January in order to avoid tedious conflict, or spend Christmas day in its entirety wearing a really big hat. Frankly, I’m not sure, given my previous near-Grinchlike track record, that I could convincingly display enough festive spirit – God bless us, every one! Etc – to warrant keeping a Santa cap jammed over my inky-blue bob all the way into boxing day. I’m not really the Christmas type, in all honesty; I loathe mince pies, I don’t own a single pair of pyjamas or a night-dress that isn’t see-through, and lately, I’ve been known to wear a fur coat in lieu of a dressing gown, although that might be something to do with the inherent difficulty of heating a factory conversion in the winter months. This year, I’m not going to be spending the holiday period carolling and wassailing (which may or may not be the same thing, but it’s harder than you’d imagine to dream up a festive verb, so there’s no need to be an asshole), I’m going to be spending it photographing naked women, filming them on a security camera and publishing a photography book. Sorry, mum.
To be honest, there’s about as much of a chance of my parents approving as there is of seeing Karl Lagerfeld as some kind of muscle-bound, hunk macking heavily on a chick.”
