Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (13) - Flipbook - Page 65
HAIR LIKE DAVID SYLVIAN
by Paul Kimm
A jumbled mosaic of magazine cuttings, pull-out posters, sliced up singles covers,
newspaper spreads, stretched across Paul’s wall. All the bands were there: The Human
League, Flock of Seagulls, Spandau Ballet, Duran Duran, and of course, Japan. Taking
pride of place in the approximate centre of the sprawl was David Sylvian, Japan’s lead
singer. David Sylvian holding a guitar, lent back with swirls of street smoke swirling
behind him. Wearing a double-breasted suit, with silver buttons, lipstick, eye shadow,
foundation, and looking into the distance on his right. His hair, a huge wave of sideparted, blonde, combed floss, molded into a mass that lifts from all sides, covering his
ears, cascading in a thick, purposeful fringe down to his eyebrows, slightly covering his
right eye. David Sylvian was the best-looking man in the world, and Paul wanted hair
just like his.
Paul peeled a smaller photo clipping of Japan’s lead singer, a headshot with the
same abundance of hair, from the wall. He rubbed the tiny blobs of BluTack off the
back, rolled them into a single piece and pressed it onto the wall in the small, empty
square where the picture had been. He then slid the precious photo into his pocket and
went downstairs.
‘Mum, can I have that four quid?’
'I’ll have to give you a fiver, so bring me the change. What time is your appointment?’
‘It’s now, in ten minutes.’
‘Well, you’ll have to go in your uniform then. You’ve no time to change.’
At the moment Paul reached to take the five-pound note from his mother, his father
walked into the kitchen.
‘What’s he got a fiver for?’
‘He’s off for a haircut. Round at Sandra’s.’
‘Ooh, off for a haircut, eh? Do you want to take a bowl with you for her to cut round?’
‘No. I’m getting it cut like David Sylvian.’
‘Who the bloody hell is David Sylvian?’
Paul retrieved the fragile picture from his pocket and held it out.
‘He’s the lead singer of Japan. He was voted the best-looking man in the world.’
His dad rested his left palm on the countertop, his right hand on his hip, and bent over
double, almost touching the floor with his forehead, letting out a room rumbling laugh.
‘Man alive! He was what? Voted best-looking man on Earth? Oh my days! That’s
bloody brilliant that is!’
‘Give me the photo back, Dad. I have to go.’
'Voted best-looking man in the world, was he? Bloody hell! If you held a competition
for best-looking man in your bedroom, and you were the only voter, you still wouldn’t
flaming win it! Classic. Absolutely bloody classic.’
His dad straightened up again and returned the magazine cutting. Paul took it and
bolted out of the back door and all the way to Sandra’s Salon.
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