Granoff Center (Thurs) Dance 8

Stare at them. Really stare at every snarl. Appreciate the variations of color, texture, angle of curl and mass. Adore the volume, the height. Think about ratting it up even more. You will need two mirrors for this, one small one in your hand-use the one with the velvet brocade in yellow -yes I know you cracked it (five more years of bad luck) but it is just the right size. Contemplate how long it has been since a brush shoved it’s viscous little teeth through your beautiful nests- destroying family’s, units, improvised Gardner stitch(how the hell did that happen?) gently place the hand mirror down, and stare into your own yellow brown eyes.
Now touch your hair, full hand pulsing squeezes like teenage mitts on tits. Savor the itchy warm bumpy glory. Work your finger through-jerking down quickly until the barricade of knots prevent further motion-delight in the pressure on the creases of your hands.
Make all manner of obscene faces in the in the mirror as you pet yourself-everything from sultry too demure. Really ham up the terror as you pick up the grey brush. With great panache slowly lower it to your head, like they teased Madame Du Berry on the guillotine. Your eyes become tiny slights as the ripping noises echo in your skull- erasing your masterpieces and then-
Avery 2
You say fuck it, flinging the brush down, crossing your arms around your chest and pout.
…
Only look mildly surprised when Katharine Hepburn bursts in your bedroom door, and says the way only Hepburn can (with tremble and bravado) “Without discipline there is no life at all” You put up a very phony fight as she drags you to the kitchen and straps you down(with maroon silk strips)to the oak chair with ripped canning. Hepburn removes your full size mirror off the wall, props it against the table (so you can see everything she is doing to you, every tear that will fall down your neck, every moment of pleasure in her eyes…) and with a naughty twitch of her nose proceeds to ruthlessly attack you hair.
Strain against your silk bonds (savoring the pressure on your elbows, writs, thighs and knees) as a hot anguish creeps over your skull. Hepburn pauses from the thunders assault upon your mats, to remove the growing wad of hair from the brush, with which she dabs your tear strained eyes. It is itchy and unpleasant. She runs her long and thin finger though your hair and it feels like a pleasant inferno. Finally, she states “Life is hard. After all, it kills you” as she unties your bonds. She then pats you on the cheek, places the brush in your sore hand and says ”see you next month.”