Wednesday, 6 July 2011

The half-baked Beauty Parlour theory, and another poem


It's late.  I have been busy today, too busy to sit down and write.  I had my hair done actually, as well as lots of other stuff.  I have mentioned before about how having one's hair done always makes one feel better - this is mainly a woman thing, obviously.  Men don't seem to really notice how they look (sweeping generalisation, I know).   But, wouldn't it be a good idea to have beauty treatments in mental hospitals?

Maybe when people are past the stage of being floridly ill...

I had my nails done once when I was in hospital and it made me feel a lot happier.  Given that a lot of people who become mentally ill have money worries (just go in a mental hospital and look around if you don't believe me) and that a lot of money is spent just caring for them, I think some sort of beauty treatment would be a valid use of resources.  What price a haircut, compared to the confidence of feeling that you look really good?  (Sorry, I don't think that sentence makes sense).

I know there are benefits to sort out this sort of stuff, and that people have families...but still.  Maybe it could be a function of the rehabilitation centres, to have a little beauty parlour, or ...something. 

I think I am actually too tired to be writing.  Don't worry, everyone, I am not cracking up.  I have just lost the ability to express myself coherently.  Temporarily, I hope.  To fill the gap I am going to post another poem.

This one is called:

Nature v. Nurture

I scare myself when I consider Teenaged Me
The cigarettes, the boys, the risks I took, the spliffs

Remember when, one evening with a friend
I smashed a bottle's neck against a sink

Because we didn't have a corkscrew did we, see?
And we intended to get pissed

Now mother, careful nurturer and nag
I want to build my own Olympic team

Don't want these angels seeing what I saw
Don't want them knowing where I've been

And so I lecture them, and lather them with love
And hope that Teenaged Me remains unseen.   

Louise x
(PS, obviously Teenaged Me is now properly busted, now that the book is out there.  Whoops!)


  1. Love the poem. What's a "spliff?"

  2. A joint. Is that an American term? Can't think of another word, off-hand, as fortunately those days are long behind me. But I suppose a loose definition might be: a giant rolled up cigarette, sprinkled with melted cannabis resin, and smoked, usually in turn with others, with the intention of getting stoned. I never did hard drugs though. God knows what would have happened if I had!