On Hearing A Drag Queen Cackle

04-197208XX 08After the sometimes strange prominence given to certain people when writing on DRAG, persuaded, it seems, by twenty-year-old photographs, may a Drag Queen say a word of truth about himself?

In my Act I do — inter alia — the Indian Rope Trick. It has always amazed audiences. Now, another Drag Queen has shown me a new trick. If you are going bald, don’t get too excited too quickly.

One night I was about to appear at a well known night club that is gay. As I combed my hair, prior to pinning it up to take the wig, a Drag Queen friend came into the dressing room. I had produced a tuft — not a few hairs – a tuft of hair on my comb. “Gord, girl, you’ll soon be bloody bald.”

This depressing conclusion had already forced itself upon me, since the supply of hair on the head is limited. How I hated the Drag Queen AND the comment. To add to the injury, he took my comb and gently combed through my locks just once, then screeched: “You’ll soon be a bloody billiard ball.” By great self control. I didn’t tell him to shut his great big cakehole; that I’d had sleepless nights concerning this coming disaster, and that it needed no stressing from that bitch. I do love my long hair.

“I can help you. if you’ll let me.” I thought: “How like a Drag Queen.” Then said;”A fortune awaits anybody who can truly stop hair falling out.” But the bitch wouldn’t be silenced. “I can do it, girl” This was said with such sisterly confidence that I paused, and was told the actual names of Drag Queens who had not only arrested the fall of hair, but now had a new growth. This was irresisible. “How much?”

I paid over some pounds and in due course the Drag Queen delivered to me some pretty pink pills: “Take two a day for the first week, then one a day.”

Let me be honest with you. dear reader. I would have eaten shirt buttons once persuaded that my nightmare of baldness could be overcome. I carried out instructions. After only a few days, the hair actually ceased to come out and my long locks took on a new glow.

Friends remarked on the change. Later. I bought more pretty pink pills and kissed the phial each night. Some time later I developed pneumonia.

In hospital I was made to feel important, special. Doctors called other doctors to my bed. I knew I must be something special.

Could these clever men tell that I had new, strong hair? Could they know the Drag Queen had shown me a new trick? Eventually, I was allowed to get up and bath. Only then did I realise that they DID know. No pills had been taken for a long time, but ‘Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” I could see how special I had become — was still becoming — that I should titillate to the grave: the pills had given me hair, they had also given me tits.

The moral of this story seems to be: ‘The Gods can give with two hands — hair and two tits, if a Drag Queen can be said to be a God. What a trick! Who’s amazed now?

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