I haz a major problem. I mean like seriously major. I’ve got to be honest, it’s so big a problem that it may well mean that I can’t go to the cult event Your Horse is Alive, even though it’s been announced that I’m going and like Taylor, the effect of Hoviseconomics is already been felt.
If anything it’s because of the cult event that I have the problem. Because as is tradition, operation feral to fabulous has commenced as mother tries to make you all believe that I spend all year spotlessly clean, with feathers so white you can see them from space, as opposed to looking like a lanky yak in brown leg warmers.
First thing to go is my ginger-in-the-wrong-light winter fur, instantly transforming me into the annual poster child for Greenpeace as I look like a seal pup. And a young one at that. This year that job was given to Crazy Self Employed Lady who, unlike mother, can be trusted not to chop my Hovis hose in half with her violently shaking right hand (mother claims this is due to nerve damage in her back, but frankly I think it’s the combination of vets bills and a lack of prosecco…).
Anyways, needless to say, before I could blink my million dollar eye, my fur was dropping faster than knickers at a Tom Jones concert. My manly cheekbones have once again been exposed, the sad fact of how emaciated I am under the inches of fluff is now evident to all and I have retained both my leg hair and my manhood. So far, so good.
Then came the problem. You see CSEL is a showjumper. And they’re all a bit weird. I’m not a showjumper and as such had grown my manly mane to Jason Momoa standards, which I thus can toss about at will, showing I am indeed worth it. Mother had thus requested that CSEL give me a “tidy up”. Now to normal people that means a bit of dead ends off, a small trim and possibly a bit of thinning.
But CSEL is not normal.
She is a showjumper.
It’s fair to say I now look like the victim of an unfortunate accident involving a hedge trimmer in which I was the loser of the altercation. I have been SCALPED. Not only is it only an inch long all over, she’s got such a straight line I could lie down and be used as skirting board. My fringe is Dwayne Dibbley’s fantasy haircut. Not since Aunty Em famously gave me a scissor derived bowl cut has my mane looked this bad. The woman is amazing as a clipper but Fronck the hairdresser she is not. I’ve gone from aqua man to action man – honestly, the only thing shorter than my mane is mother’s temper. I can’t go out looking like this!
CSEL reassuringly tells me I look like a strip fit hunter ready to step onto the field, all sleek and aerodynamic. Personally I think she’s been sniffing my flyspray again. Mother is no help as she just fell about laughing while snorting the word “short” in between giggles. I’d like to see her laugh if someone chopped her noodle hair to the length of a buzz cut. I am like Samson, deprived off my power (and a fringe to hide behind when mother is being embarrassing – which at Your Horse is Alive is pretty much 59 minutes out of every hour).
So, I need help. Is there anything out there that makes hair grow faster? Do they make hair extensions for horses? Can someone possibly buy me some? I’ll pay you back in lickits and snogs (well ok snogs after I’ve eaten the lickit).
Send help, please. Hope is fading.
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