Years ago, when appearance obviously didn't concern me as much as it does now, I would cut my own hair. A pair of scissors, a clump in the hand, and snip. Now, like a good grown-up, I go to an actual hair salon at least once a year to get a proper cut. I love my hair salon; the woman who cuts my hair and I bond over our love of Shirley Jackson and fifties pulp paperbacks. They play music in the salon that makes me feel like I'm hanging out with my girlfriends and taking turns playing records. The Pretenders. Pixies. New Order. So, you can imagine my nostalgic mix of joy and revulsion when this song came on the soundsystem as Amy began to chop away at my hair last week.
Oh yes. Icehouse.