A bloke with an exceptionally long plait is occupying the seat next to me. I can’t stop looking at it. I want to touch it. I’m in a bar in Ubud though, so touching it would probably be quite inappropriate I suppose, not least because I’m sober and it’s a distinguished literary event attended by a very serious crowd.
This plait is one of the glossy kind, the lustrous, luscious flowing cluster of ever-blossoming and blooming follicles that makes women weep. Only a man who doesn’t give a shit if he has a perfect plait or not could grow this plait. It’s fucking unfair. It’s currently curling over his shoulder, scraping his belt buckle and beckoning my stares.
Instead of listening to the critic talking about the book in question, I can’t stop thinking about what these people would do if I stood up and grabbed this man’s plait and started using it as a skipping rope, or pretended it was a moustache, or even what HE would do if I did that. Honestly, I am almost at the point of banning myself from this bar… hauling myself by my own arms out to the street and kicking myself to the curb.
You should see his hair though. Man. That is impressive.