strange one.

squeezing foam through my hair I took time to make sure my sideburns were covered. My hair needed to be blond, my wife thought.

My father had just constructed a new bathroom within our old one, which was ornate and secure. The place was safer now, I suppose. Water ran from a collection of small drums out of a silver u shaped faucet. The table was made to look like an old paper-desk; such was the vogue.

Rubbing the smelly dye foam through my hair, towel wrapped around my shoulders like some bomb-survivor, I stepped down to my father who was watching a new action movie piped in over broadband onto our fixed computer.

The movie depicted blondie fighters sitting down to a meeting when suddenly a Mac truck smashed through the facade of their meet-place building and crushed their bodies under its wheels. The truck then backed up to smash the head of one quite surprised looking decapitated tyro.
One older blondie fighter who saw this horror from safe-distance shot a tackler rope into the back of the Mac truck, attached the line to a yacht toting trailer, hopped on the yacht and readied himself for battle.

"These new action movies are great", my dad said.