Haircut...

I had intended to let is grow, but somehow I couldn’t quite recapture the teased and towselled look I manage back in 1982 when her name was Rio and she danced across the sand. Back then I could work all day, freelance most of the night and still manage to go out clubbing bedecked in a purple and pink paisley shirt. Thirty years ago, so much forgotten and still some things remembered if I turn on the lights at the back of my mind.

I think I knew who I was back then, or at least there was a me I could build on. I’m still trying to work out when the blocks began to drift apart; maybe the mortar wasn’t strong enough – not enough cement, a little too much sand. But of course I’m lying, I know exactly when the cracks and crumbles began to appear and all over a mistaken gesture that sucked me in and flattered my easily flattered ego. I was such a peacock back then. Of course it was my fault, inevitable really; just like what happened after was inevitable. Maybe that’s it, maybe the realisation of the inevitability made me less or more or something - anyway, I don’t go to that room very often, I’m scared of the happy memories I find there.

So instead of letting it grow, I’ve cut my hair – taken a pair of scissors and snipped and snipped, making the floor grey where once there would have been sunshine, swept it into a pile and thrown it in the bin. Funny, it looks darker when it's off my head, more colourful somehow, less crazy - so no more waking with a huge fluffy grey cloud upon my head and no getting it back even if I wanted.