Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER.
Once upon a time there was the greatest band in the world. Do I even need to say their name? You should know, right? Okay, okay – I assume too much about my taste and your opinion. So I will just tell you, and you can humour me.
The Beatles.
Come on, you know it. Even if they’re not your number one, they’d have to be in the Top 10-20. Unless you’re some sorta indie douche. Although – maybe they are old enough to be hipster cool? I have no idea.
Anyway. My point is, I am trying to recreate this cool photo of Paul McCartney for my Insta. (Poptart1999 btw, I follow back) I have got the outfit. Black trousers, jumper – beige, although I am guessing here, the photo is black and white – white collared shirt and black tie, tucked neatly into the pullover, as my pom dad would call the jumper. Also the chunky gold watch, juuuust hidden under the cuff. My brows are totally on point and while I don’t have the camera he is using to take his selfie (totally meta, no?) I have printed out a pic of it and put it on cardboard and cut a hole so I can hide my phone behind it and take the pic. The logistics of how I will hold the pose and take the photo currently baffle me. Either way, the whole idea is kinda genius.
Every day leading up to this epic selfie of a selfie I have been wondering if I should go for the hair, too. Artistic integrity/sacrifice and all that. Little bit Ruby Rose in execution, Lady Gaga in showmanship. Not quite sure how I’d go pulling the lads with that do, but meh. Least of my worries, really. Contouring is where those lie. I have to nail the deep-set eyelids, the light stubble above the bow lips, and the dimpled chin.
One day I will master this stuff. Stuff being contouring plus life. Shit. What must you think of me already? Self-obsessed, social media whore teen. Perhaps you wouldn’t be wrong. But it ain’t as if I am chucking a duckface in my parents bathroom, toothpaste spattered mirror in the background and crumpled towels on the floor, in my undies. I am trying to give my minion followers some history and culture, yo.
Because of that, that leads my to the conundrum of the ‘do. Yeah, I know I am not Sigourney in Aliens or the American Psycho Batman dude who lost all that weight. It is one photo. But maybe it is just that one photo that makes you. Invents, or reinvents, as the case may be. Not just like everyone else, but a risk-taker or an artiste. A unique snowflake. Anyway – my sis is keen to have at me with the scissors…
And because of that, I have become some sort of half legend/half weirdo. My Insta peeps ate that shit up. With lots of vacuous Yasssss! You go! and #shelovesyou comments. Course there was the homophobic shit but I feel like if I am confusing and confronting people? Good! At school my friends were all, ‘It’ll grow back!’ Whatevs. Once I would have been, well. Once I wouldn’t have done any of it.
Until finally, I decided to stop waging self wars. I decided that no fucks would be given. I’d think of what society wanted me to do and do the exact damn opposite. I mean, not like breaking the law, but like, having Paul McCartney hair and not shaving my bits every second day, and running cos I love it and eating a double whopper cos I crave it.
My dear ol’ mum calls me precocious and I don’t deny it. She tells me self-awareness is a scary and beautiful gift. She says I am awesome and quirky (mum code for lovably strange) and the best thing she has created. Naw, shucks.
However, I digress. I was actually wondering if you’d like to come on an adventure with me? There’ll be kissing stories, descriptions of meals, betrayal and youtube cat videos. I might even show you that photo, if you’re good. <insert winky emoji>
Bianca Hewett
