Let us go then, you and I, to my salon that is on the beach at Skye,
Let us sit at poorly plush upholstered seats,
The gossiping retreats of brassy bitches in Gucci whispering into cell phones.
Oh, do not ask about it, let us cut before we shout it.
And in the salon the stylists come and go,
Talking of the benefits of Wella Make-It-Grow.
Shall I part my hair behind, do I dare to dye it peach?
I have heard the Juniors rinsing, each to each,
I do not think they will rinse for me.
Oh it is impossible to razor cut too lean,
It’s as if a giant dryer blows the styles onto a video screen,
And I grow sideburns, I grow sideburns,
Do I dare to wax and sculpt? Do I dare extend my reach?
I have heard the juniors whispering, each to each,
I do not think they are whispering about me
As they take the Gucci bitches cups of tea.