 Gwerthwyl fan ddoedd yn gwleidio'n gwladol. Gweithio hynny yn eu ddweud yn y llynll pan ddim yn Glasgo a Llywodraeth. As y gwladol ar Flus meringue o Glasgo, a sydd oedd felly yn gweithio'r ddaeth. Yn y yr Arya cyfnodd y army, lle mae'r rhaid i gyd yn llu. Ac mae'r lly Swedish yn llwf angriflei'r g Casgliadu yng nghyfydig, le ac mae'r llw öffentlichu a'r llyfr wedi'u grifrif Y gallu cyfnodau post-traumatig, y gallu ddysgu syniadau yn y ddechrau mewn gwirionedd ynghylch hefyd hyn yn llu'r llasgo, y gallu ddysgu'r un hynny'n gyffredigol. Mae hyn yw'r llun yma, mae hynny'n gyffredig post-traumatig ychydigiaeth. Mae hynny'n gyffredig hynny'n gwybod yn barbar. Mae hynny'n gweithio cyfnod wedi yn y ddechrau ddechrau ddysgu, a tragiadau. Yn y 70s, Desi Difer's Barbershop was up a small stairway in an old brick building on our main street. He shared the premises with a hair salon for women. Salons were segregated back then. To get to his section, men were forced to pass by rows of ladies' heads humming inside conical hairdryers. I always thought it looked like aliens had landed. And once you reached the men's section, you were surely in a different world. You knew that your barber would keep your secrets to himself. Dandruff, Psariasis and scabs. And then maybe money troubles, girls you fancied, whether or not you were a Catholic or a Protestant. He was like your doctor. Sadly, in Desi Difer's case, he was doctor mingale. Desi's corner had two large barber chairs facing the mirrors. Broken music crackled from an old radio. Too low to make out. Big black combs floated in super blue disinfectant gel jars like fetuses. A two bar electric fire on the wall baked the room like a pizza oven. Desi did his thing amid the cigarette smoke and hacking coughs. Clippers buzzed between the sounds of the snip snip. No one spoke. In fact, the only word I ever heard Desi say was NEXT. I want to short at the back but over the ears and a side parting I would say Desi was dressed in blue overalls popped with the grease stains of a million dandruff ridden hairs. He always wore a clean dress shirt and a tightly wound neck tie. His own hairstyle was experimental. A great wash of hair curving around the back of his head like a tidal wave. But the most appalling aspect of this barbaric fiend was his attack on children's hair. His face had the calmness of a mannequin and the message in his eyes was as clear as day. I feel nothing. So no matter what instructions you gave Desi all children walked out of his hairy laboratory sporting the German helmet cup. Circa 1933 to 1945. As I was being clipped and buzzed back into the Second World War a low whistle came from Desi's mouth. Out of tune and dripping with pure menace he was whistling the theme tune to the great escape. Once freed from the chair of torture I quickly paid and pondered my best route home. A tunnel under the city direct to my house would have been ideal but there was to be no escaping people's gazes and what I imagined they thought. Desi's made another Nazi. So I slid along the walls of buildings trying to get home unnoticed. I turned my face away from shop windows. On the way I looked up at the town hall to where the Union Jack the flag of the Queen was flying from the staff. Why was Desi so unpatriotic? Why didn't he cut us all into the shape of a British soldier's helmet? Please take me to the other barber in the main street. I begged my mum when I finally got home. All the other kids are going there now but she was having none of it. Desi's cheap and the ends don't split, she said. But I look like a Nazi, I cried. Don't be stupid, she said. You don't look anything like a Nazi. I remember the war, don't forget. But I still had school to negotiate and it never went well after a trip to Desi's. Walking through the halls I was dimly aware of whispered jokes of Seekile from my skill mates. Even we men tried it on. My anger needed an outlet and I found it on the soccer field. I hacked the other team with mercilessly high challenges. Two-footed assaults that left some in tears, others in wheelchairs. I didn't just leave my foot in tackles. I actually inserted my entire body, including muddy cleats up the derriers of unsuspecting goalkeepers. I screamed orders, clicked my heels and stomped on the squishy bits of my generation. Eventually, I'd grow tired and retreat back to the classroom where I'd subvert the cardinal role and make threats only to kids I knew I could beat in a fight. Out in the street after school I would berate dogs, chase cats and laugh at people's disabilities. It would be years before I learned a word for it but this was shade and froid at its most clinical. It would take several weeks for the German helmet to grow out. In that time, I laughed at crippled people, ended the lives of bugs and flies and was generally out of sorts. Thank you.