The Fag Hag accompanied Fag Hag Mum to the hairdresser last week to deal with a code red situation. ‘I need to do something with this hair – I look like a roundhead!’ she had cried out angrily in Sainsburys the other day. This had been confirmed by the old Doris Stokes-type nana waiting for a cooked chicken nodding solemnly in agreement. ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ I replied, ‘we need queens. And we need them fast’.So up we headed to Great Queen Street, for an appointment with my insanely hot and tragically for me, insanely gay hairdresser. He prodded and poked around Fag Hag mum’s crown like a surgeon doing a post mortem. ‘We need more volume, more sex appeal, more soft geometry – I’m thinking Mary Quant for the millennium. OK, let’s get to work – someone bring us some pink champagne pronto!’…
Fag Hag mum hadn’t been this bowled over since one of the drag queens at Madame JoJo’s serenaded her with ‘Let’s Go Fly a Kite’. ‘He’s so handsome! I bet he’s very popular on the scene darling,’ she whispered. If only you knew girlfren’. Before long Fag Hag Mum was looking like one hot momma. I even made her do a little Extreme Makeover pashmina twirl in front of the mirror.
To round the day off in fabulous style we decided to head over to Me Me Me’s offices to meet the gorgeous folks there. ‘Haven’t you got amazing eyes?’ she said to one of the crew in a manner that was very Entertaining Mr Sloane before regaling them with tales of brothels in Sudan and Nigerian bushmen stepfathers.
‘Do you know darling, we’ve spent time with such lovely people,’ she smiled on the way home. ‘Yep,’ replied the Fag Hag, ‘and not a straight man amongst them.’
Fag Hag mum rolled her eyes. ‘Well of course not! Why do you think we had such a fabulous day?’