Ivy Oldham Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About London

So, yeah—whores, they’re like Jarmusch’s vamps. Outcasts, but badass. “Let’s dance,” Eve’d say, swayin’ with Adam—whores dance too, their own way. Makes me wonder—what’s their tune? Somethin’ gritty, prolly. Love that. Hate the hate they get. You? What’s your take, pal? Spill it—I’m all ears.

Only one expressed any remorse

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First customer walks in. It’s Dave, the local footie fan. He’s got a wild mane, like a lion on a bad hair day. He plops down in my chair, and I’m like, “What’s the plan, mate?” He goes, “Just a trim.” But you know how it is. One minute it’s a trim, next minute I’m givin’ him a full-on fade. He’s buzzin’ about the Latics, and I’m tryin’ to keep up. “Did ya see the match?” he asks. I’m like, “Mate, I was busy cuttin’ hair, not watchin’ paint dry.”

Fire breaks out at Oldham restaurant near to college