The Children of Revolutie Street

Date: Thu, 10 Aug 2000 21:46:09 -0400
To: fishbreath@somewhere.net
From: John
Subject: Muffs

It's easy to imagine ef arranging her affairs in Transylvania to rediscover the clan's buried lineage: furriers of human hair, voluptuous tresses of princesses displayed to ensnare roaming princes. Red hair they say was magical, hypnotic.

Thence, to engage an acronym specialist for pithy corporate logos to sell the hair razored from near-bald skulls, now clogging sewers in western metros, along with venerable webs of leg and pubic and underarm and eyebrow plucks, chin stubble by the quadzillions -- hair never dies you know, nor teeth decay after food stops smearing them with acids.

Early automobile seats were packed with horsehair when that effluvia was bountiful. Will bicycle racers now squirm on saddles padded with the riders own sheddings, as sharkskin swimmers suits are made of those sleek bodies' shaven shorns.

I can see ef gathering mountains of hair, Hapsburgian, perhaps comingled from descendant princesses and princes for decades and decades holed up high up in forests, unshaven, bearish, fecund, never shampooed, about as pure as can be found west of Tibet, for constructing svelte cornrow fur-pieces for cold winter couture coverup of armpits, genitals, chins, brows, freezing brain pans.

Many shades of red, auburn, orange, scarlet muffs.

-John