Cut and Paste

So I had my hair cut this week (don't worry, this is scene-setting happening here, I promise not to linger on this, there really is nothing worse than people talking about haircuts. I mean there is, obviously, but on a domestic level its up there with stealing your last bag of wotsits, or someone explaining the back story of a TV cop drama that you're obviously never going to watch again, and frankly, are only watching in the first place this time because THEY chose what was going on the tv EVEN THOUGH they KNOW you've never seen the damn thing before and will never again, but you're far too polite to say 'actually, the inbetweeners is on channel 4, sure its an old series but hey, you never get tired of laughing, right?' and now you're stuck valiently asking things like 'so he was the one who's drug ring got taken down by the prostitute spy?' whilst secretly thinking 'GOD why dont they all just DIE')

So I had my haircut this week. Always the same hair dresser, always the same place. Joanne. and My House. She is the Chicken Korma of hairdressers. Never let me down yet. I mean sure, you have to wash your hair in the downstairs sink before she arrives, and sweep up all the old bits of hair after she's gone, but hey, for a cut and colour for 35 quid, who's compaining? Not I. The thing is, with Joanne, talking to her isnt an absolute hideous nightmare, as I find it is with almost every hairdresser in the world. Oh sure, stick me in a bar with some murderers, I'll chat away like a drunken fig, but put me in a chair with someone holding a brush in one hand, and the gesture that comes with the question 'so have you been watching Big Brother?' in the other, and its like I'm Bond under torturing. Nice try darling, but you'll have to rope ma goolies a LOT harder than that I'm afraid.

So yes, with Joanne its much more like a vague aunt has come to visit, and, loose as they are, the threads of conversation from the last visit are still there to be sewn into the deep tapestry of Mutual Banal Conversation. And it happens in the kitchen, so there's the off chance of a cup of tea if my dad somehow tears himself away from the excitements of the pond.

The point is, however, that Joanne was telling me about her daughter, Libby, who is 13, in her 2nd year of high school and currently studying for her whatevers (She was chopping rather vigorously at that point and my concentration slipped somewhat as I saw what appeared to be most of my scalp falling onto my own knees) Libby was doing English, and had been given Dracula to read. Now this made me look away from the knee-bound back of my head rather suddenly.
'Hold on, she's studying Dracula?'
'Oh yes, all about vampires isn't it? Was a bit worried for her really.'
'Yes, vampires, yes they are.. rather scary...'
I'd be rather worried too, i thought, as I'm pretty sure from studying it at A level and then in my degree that actually its more about gang-rape than anything. I mean, obviously they're not going to tell the 13 year old kids that Bram Stoker was in fact a mentalist sexist woman-phobe who wrote a book basically to live out his own fantasies of literally sexing them all to death. but still.... I mean.. We did Skellig when I was 13. It was about an angel. I'll give you a small extract from the book just to illustrate what I mean:

'Lucy rose up in her casket, looking pretty much like a massive slut. What a whore. I mean really though, her lips looked like they could take a truck covered in hog grease. Van Helsing grabbed a nearby stake in order to stab that fucking bitch right in the HEART, and then one of the other men, brian or carl or someone said 'my main man Van, is it just me or is this metaphor too complicated?' Helsing cried 'you know what, you're right! This is all getting a bit subtle for my liking! its time to fuck this bitch UP, Renfield style!' Then he threw away the massive stick and they all did her. And it was awesome.' (page 324)

So yeah. You see what I mean? Trying not to put too fine a point on it, I mentioned to Joanne that the book might not be.. well... savoury, for a young impressionable mind. She furrowed her brow, and said that so far they'd only done the first few pages, and that it seemed alright. I shrugged and thought it best to say nothing more. Partially because it didn't seem right to interfere in her child's education, but mainly because all this brow furrowing business was playing havoc with her depth perception. I nearly lost an ear. I tried to remember the first few pages of Dracula, and whether it had hinted at any of the crapness to come. I found a copy post-sweeping (a very soothing experience, its as if you're cleaning away your old, significantly less awesome self) and had a look at the first page. The first line of Dracula is as follows-

'Jonathan Harker's Journal
3 May. Bistritz. __Left Munich at 8:35 P. M, on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.

Jesus Christ. Doesn't exactly set you up, does it? By the sound of this, you're settling down for a 14 hour conversation with the world's most boring dinnerguest. The teacher probably read the first 3 pages, knew there'd been a 'twilight' craze amount the young and nimble and thought bosh. Done.

Dangerous stuff, these first impressions.

Got me thinking though, we're not allowed to judge books by their covers- fair play, there are a LOT of pretentious graphic designers out there who will do anything to get gothic-y typewriter fonts onto front pages everywhere. But, can we judge them by their first lines? Surely, an author's first line is basically the most carefully thought out introduction you can ever have. Imagine the brilliance of crafting word for word the things to say to people upon first meeting them, without fear of vommitting, violent angry laughter or accidently asking them if they'd raped your grandma. That is what a first line is. Sure, thats a lot of pressure, but at the same time- there's a lot of books out there. If any of them lines should count, the first one is the one to go for.

With this in mind, I had a little poke around some of my favourite books, and snooped away at their first lines to test the theory. I print some for you below. If you like the sound of any of them, I'll give you the title. And please add your own. I love a good mystery line and it sounds like Joanne might need a few suggestions for Libby's 3rd year- 'Crack Pimps Uncovered', anyone?

This is by no means a comprehensive collection, but rather lovely old friends I happened to have around me at the time of writing. Enjoy-

'It's hot as hell in Martirio, but the papers on the porch are icy with the news'

'It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imgine, they still think he or she is wonderful'

'The snow in the mountains was melting, and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation'

'Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy'

'Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.'

'Mrs Rodice perched herslef on the edge of her spartan desk and sucked her watery afternoon tea through sullen lips.'

'In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me sine advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticising anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in the world haven't had the advantages that you've had'

'On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.'

'My desert island, all-time, top-five most memorable breakups, in chronological order, are as follows: Alison Ashmore; Penny Hardwick; Jackie Alden; Charlie Nicholson; and Sarah Kendrew. Those were the ones that really hurt. Can you see your name on that list, Laura?'

and finally

'These very old people are the father and mother of Mr Bucket. Their names are Grandpa Joe, and Grandma Josephine.

No amount of TV Cop backstory can destroy how these unimaginably wonderful objects make me feel. The Inbetweeners can wait. And besides. There's always Channel 4 +1.