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July 12, 2010 | by  | in Opinion |
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UTHER DEAN. CRACKS WISE. SECRET DANCES.

Follicalist predictions for the week starting the 12th of July

Welcome back my weary wanderers to these dazzling pages of futures told and lives changed. As you will no doubt remember, the stars, my usual port of call when diving through the clouded pond of what is to come, are not being forthcoming.

They don’t like me anymore.

Me and the astral bodies are no longer friends. We are no more on speaking terms. Which is unfortunate. Not my fault. I didn’t no anything. I’m not the one who went around spreading venomous untruths about me. I DIDN’T DO THAT. DID I, EMMA? Oh no no no no. Did I? No. I didn’t tell everyone about that time with the pickle, did I? Or the ice cream cake incident. Eh? Didn’t talk about those? Did I? No. See, I have a little thing called tact. Ever heard of it?

Didn’t think so.

Look. I know you’ve had a hard life and things don’t work out the way that perhaps they should have but did you really have to go to running to all the astral bodies? Did you really have to tell them about… that thing?

Shhh. Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t need your hateful lies like missiles of deceit they are.

Anyway.

So, the stars won’t talk to me. End of story. We now must explore different ways of telling the future. This week we will be using that most ancient and venerated of techniques; hair colour analysis.

It must be firmly stated that we are discussing your true hair colour, not whatever bottled hue you have shoveled onto your scalp in the mundane hope that somehow changing your dank, insipid locks to some painful electric blue will change your life or make you funny or shade you interesting or stop that big gnawing hole of self-doubt that tears through your soul more and more everyday until you give up sleeping with pillows because of the massive spike in your power bill due to you having dry the tears out of it every single fucking day of your fucking life. So, we are talking about what colour you hair would be if you washed that gunk out of furry skull cover.

Proto-follicalist pre-pigmentary post-visualisation as the boffins call it is a surprisingly and alarmingly accurate form of future telling. Prepare to have your mind blown by the sheer and precise accuracy of the information that is about to textually occur in front of your readie eyes.

Let us start with you blondies out there. At 12:23pm on this Tuesday you will have an epiphany while tying your shoelaces. You will decide to become properly vegetarian. No more of this half-vegetarianism. In the bin for all your “I’m a moral vegetarian, but meat is just delicious and I know I shouldn’t but I do feel really bad about it.” As if that changes anything. This is a good thing. You should look forward to it. I know I am. Your life will shift. Animals will suddenly flock to you and love you. Every day after this Tuesday you will be awoken by a glorious choir of the most angelic and not at all annoying birds. Your health will wildly improve. You will be able to breath and feel emotions uncynically or ironically again. So, enjoy your meat tomorrow morning. Because it will be your last and then you will finally become a good person.

Now, red heads, you’re all in for an interesting week. On this Wednesday at 8:47am you will witness a fatal car accident. In between sips of your takeaway long black, a blue Honda will run a red light and hit a green Toyota. No one will survive. It will not be your fault, but that won’t stop you blaming yourself. What-could-have-beens will percolate through your brain. You will not speak, well, you won’t say anything of consequence for days. But it’s not all gray clouds and concrete punch. Things will begin to look up. You will fall in love immediately with the police officer who takes your statement after the accident. It will only take a little mild stalking to get them to love you back. We were given communication skills to communicate facts. Not shit. This will be your motto in your post-accident life. You will be shaken and shocked into a constant life long search for veracity. Your campaign with your lovely bit of cop at your side will be a massive success. You will become a superhero journalist and your name will be TRUTH PUNCH because when you PUNCH people they will bleed TRUTH. You must, however, be careful, because with great power comes great opportunity for awesome stunts. As TRUTH PUNCH, you will have a duty to find as many explosions as possible and to walk away from them in slow motion as techno plays. In your TRUTHMOBILE you must perform at least three wicked jumps every journey. Yes, it will be hard. Yes, it will be wicked cool. So, enjoy your last few days of normality. Oh, and don’t get in any Toyotas.

Now, brown haired people. You know you like to dance. I know you like to dance. Everyone knows. I think it’s the t-shirt that reads ‘You know who likes to dance? I do!’. You really should wear something else. That one is really beginning to smell. So, your dancing is going to get you in trouble. At 1:24am on this Thursday morning while jigging and jiving up a storm at your most favourite of boogie islands the Big Kumera (have you got any self respect?) you will trip and knock over a large, rather angry man’s drink. It will spill not just over him but all over the serial killer knitting circle who were attempting (and failing) to have a quiet night out at the next table. Just as Beyonce’s siren-like voice (we’re talking waking-you-to-stop-you-dying siren not come-to-my-island-please siren) announces that she is something to the effect of that she contains too much bootyliciousness for you or your close relatives, you will have to flee. Because, well, with that jazzy stumble, trip and drink-up-turn, your life as you know it is over. You will have to go on the run. You’ll be a fugitive. Like in that film. The Fugitive. You will need to be ready. You will, when you go dancing on Wednesday night, need to take the following things with you; fake passports from at least three different countries (two non-European), an off-road capable vehicle with a full tank of petrol, two blades (one concealable), one bullet proof vest and more tinned soup than you could ever hope to consume (good for bartering surprisingly). While it may be somewhat spasmodically unwieldy to carry. While people may mock your wildly overstuffed back pack (and believe me you can fit a Ute into a back pack. I have done it so you should be able to.) but it is a necessity to survive your new on-the-run life style. How you will dance with your world on your back is another question and one not for here. Sorry.

This week will be one of routine for the black haired amongst us. You will awake at 7:51am everyday. You will get out of bed at 8:02am after failed attempts at 7:54am and 7:59am respectively everyday. You will shower from 8:05am to 8:11am everyday. You will breakfast (tea and toast and tea) from 8:21am to 8:36am everyday. Then you will do nothing. Nada. Zip ah dee doo dah. Because that is your routine this week. Nothing. You will sit in a chair and stare at the wall. You will hum tunelessly to yourself for twelve hours until you need to sleep again. Everyday. No one knows why. Not even you. Well, you’re not even reading this. You won’t read at all this week. So, I can write whatever I want about you this week, you black-haired twat. You know no one likes you? It’s because you smell. You should hear what people say behind your back. They call you ‘Spackleface’ and ‘Krittleshack’. People dance mockery at you when you are not there. There are many secret websites dedicated to the vicious analysis of every single element of your life-style and attitude. No one disagrees that you are the worst kind of scum. Now, if you didn’t get so stuck in your grab-stack routines you would be reading this and you would know. But you won’t so you don’t. Ha.

Hey, baldies. Yes, I know that being bald isn’t a hair colour but you don’t want to be left out do you now? Your hairless week is going to be one of the shiny. Of the superficial. On this Thursday at 2:37pm you are going to catch sight of your own reflection. You will dazzle yourself. You will discover that, in your eyes, you are the most beautiful person in the world. You and your reflection will begin a sordid and passionate affair. Furtive flings in hotel mirrors, secret walks along riversides. You won’t tell your partner about your new found love. They wouldn’t understand and you don’t want to hurt them with the revelation that you’ve found someone better. And that someone is you. You are still fond of them, they’re just not you. You will think that you can keep this up forever. This two-sided love triangle. Of course you can’t. One day your romantic cat’s cradle will explode like a volcano packed full of magma and some more personal fluids erupting all over a stunned neurosurgeon. You and your reflection will become less careful in your passionate rendezvous. Your partner will one day walk in on you and yourself frantically banging away in the living room. There will be no amount of “This isn’t what it looks like” to glue back together your now be-sharded relationship. Then, your relationship will grow tired of you. With the electricity of all the sneaking behind backs gone, you and your reflection’s swinging clinch will dribble down the trouser leg of your souls. You will end up alone. That’s where your shiny and your superficiality will take you. Deal with it.

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About the Author ()

Uther was one of the two arts editors in 2009. He was the horoscopier and theatre writer in 2010. Alongside Elle Hunt, Uther was coeditor in 2011.

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