I have some bad news about gloves to report to you. They can become ‘external organs’ - they become extensions of the hand and body, EXTRA HANDS, MORE HANDS, a MULTIPLICITY OF HANDS. They ‘gentle’ the hand when you put them on, making the hand an object of display. What’s worse than a hand, Jane? An independent, active hand, grabbin’ an’ gesticulatin’? It’s a GLOVE, a limp little sock of material, ACTING ON A HAND, stroking the encased flesh, giving it a taste of its own lasciviously tactile medicine, objectifying it. Hands can be naked. Suddenly, my naked hand seems obscene, feral, teeth bared. Worst of all, gloves come in PAIRS. They can be split up - a single glove looses it utility, it is no longer tied to its function and it becomes a FETISH ITEM. And if I gave you one of my gloves, we would be bound together, my friend, by some hideous superfluity of limp little glove-hands, and that limp little glove hand would be an extension of ME. Hideous.
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You may have noticed I never wear gloves, or hats or scarves. Now, let me tell you why. I intensely dislike the sensation of something emulating the shape and form of my own body. I have to suppress the impulse to vomit when a hat tries to bend to the shape of my head, or a scarf breathes down the back of my neck, or a glove tenderly strokes the contours of my fingers. It’s too claustrophobic, it’s too close for comfort. I tried on a hat for size the other day, and I do believe it was trying to make a mould of my cranium. I have thus reached the logical conclusion that winter accessories secretly memorise the shape of the wearer’s limbs. One day, when the hapless wearer tries to remove their hat, scarf and gloves, the air will refuse to go out of them; they will not return to shapeless scraps of material. In fact, they will puff themselves up to their full height, and, infused with synthetic life, become a body robber! And like the parasite who feeds off the body of its host until it has sucked from them the juice of life, the poor soul who has the ill-luck to over-wear their winter warmers will crumple up like a swathe of material. Next thing they know, and they are thrown over some bed like a sheet, and a hideous caricature of themselves, with a leering grin fashioned from a chopped tomato, will curl up underneath their flattened carcass and duly begin to practice the human snore.