In the beginning, there was hair. In a style beyond that which was known to Redkind, yet still crimped or slicked, tangled or in flow. Until Fowler said Let there be a space between hair and hair and so there was a side part. And Fowler continued Let there be high & tight and so that newly parted coiffure was able to perch itself upon a pedestal fit for the weighty echelons of glamour.
There it would strive, evermore, for cutting edge. Like a master metallurgist plunging forged steel into a tepid bath of brine, deftly teasing out the natural bend of a blade. To better demonstrate His creation Fowler conjured hot, angled lighting, casting its glow and finding a product. So pure and so chic. With peaky cheeks belying a casual air, begging an unadulterated, towering mania. And so it has been.
Sprawling across every Red device, coursing through miles of global fandom: Liverpool in revelry, once again. Red resonance from the beating heart of a new normal: Jürgen Norbert Klopp.
Would it be absurdly hyperbolic to suggest we haven't felt uncut joy of this quality since Stevie was shouting Big Ears into the air? Yes. Does it feel like that sort of hyperbole fits perfectly into the Klopp era? Also yes. Reds far and wide are mainlining Klopp, at the moment, and if he jumped off a bridge it would be to a soundtrack of witness me!!!! belched by newly adopted subjects vaulting over after him. Liverpool haven't kicked a ball in anger under Klopp, and yet this is where we find ourselves. Jürgen be on it all night, man, he be on it all day--straight up--if you want him you can find him in the A.
Full disclosure: walking into Hairspray's glamcloset at TLO towers the past few months has been a practice in desolate futility without our Poster Boy. We are proud of the fact that typing in absinthe and Raheem Sterling into Google brings up our tribute, but his absence leaves a vacuous space behind. It sucks all the energy out of the joint. No more. We got Klopp, now, kiddos. We're in chapter one of Jürgenisis.
And in this chapter, every Mustafa has his Simba. Every Puff Daddy has his Mase. And every Rodgers has his Sterling. At the alter of Klopp, then, it is with manic glee that Hairspray elects a new Poster Boy in this year of Our Fowler, AK2015.
Choosing this moment to elect a new inspiration--as THE vibrant new leader in world football obliterates all else from the conversational landscape--may seem poorly timed. In truth, there are no rules to this election. In particular when considering the original constructs of a Poster Boy: fresh arrival, storylines, babyfaced, progressive fashion, and prodigious skill. Raheem Sterling was truly a walk in the park for the hairtrust. But that sort of talent doesn't pomp its dour every summer, folks. We have to take them as they come.
The beauty of Klopp is he establishes a singularity in his product, even while that product is derived from many. In this case that many includes his players. Thankfully, his players include Joe Gomez. And Joe Gomez, ladies and gentlemen, is your new Hairspray Poster Boy.
Of course it is Joe Gomez. This guy was more of a sure thing than Heather Locklear was for Melrose Place. And you damn well knew it from the second you saw him play. See, true talents establish themselves ahead of the expanded metrics. They eschew concerned scouting reports. Upper echelon players go first and ask questions later. What did Joe Gomez do? Pass the ball, mark the attacker, run the flank, all on his weak side, and two years shy of his second decade of existence. Sure, he struggled--who wouldn't? In particular for, arguably, the most pressure packed club in the England. But Joe balled so hard at the first time of asking that Kanye wanted to sign him to G.O.O.D. Music. We made that up, but it doesn't seem totally preposterous, because that's how impressive the youngster is. He is as strong a natural defensive foundation as this club has seen, full stop.
Sniffed noses heard round the world, but it doesn't change the fact that Joe Gomez is as good of a centerback prospect as there is in England. It doesn't change the fact that he's got Jürgen Klopp as his coach. And it sure doesn't change the fact that he grows a reserved high top, with a wonderfully faded blend, careful attention to the hairlines, and even more careful attention to the backline. Yes, he's made mistakes. No, he doesn't have a left foot. Call us when you realize you don't quite care either.
Jürgen Klopp? Gangster ninja messiah. Joe Gomez? Apprentice gangster ninja messiah. Hairspray? Happy to be here. When exactly is this international shit going to end? Not soon enough.
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