With ends split for here to eternity, and with a time consuming inability to trimming the perpetually splintering ends, it was about time I got a haircut.
Those days hunched over my desk, or on the edge of the bathtub, scissors in hand, hands clammy from the concentration of attention, eyes crossed, as I sought the schisms of each hair end.
I kept a specimen. I shut it in a jar. To the untrained observer, that is, everyone, bar you and I, dear reader, it seems to be a hollow jar. Lid screwed on tight in a bout of delusion. But you and I, now know, in this jar, therein lies perhaps the mothership of all ends split. The weakest, the most brittle, the stunning, the far more impressive than the ends that separate threefold. This starved filament of keratin bore a fringe of its own.
I remember when I first singled it out. It is the ends I judiciously snip off, but here, no end to be had. My eyes couldn’t cross enough, by neck wouldn’t twist enough, to see this hair in its entirety. In a radical act, my fingers gently traced it to its root, and form that beginning, I cut it off. To find with wide eyed amazement, the fringing ran all through its length.
High time to get a haircut, yes. I could have gone to just cuts, saved myself a much needed $30. I recalled ‘just cuts’ been the high school nickname of a brooding dark boy with an odd flop of hair.
I’ve wanted to change a part of my body dramatically for a long time. Perhaps a lip piercing, a few extra dress sizes? My friend suggested a tattoo; ‘qualms’ across my chest in a gothic script. A haircut was the most conservative option.
My guilt at choosing an expensive hairdresser was allayed, as I told him to cut my hair very short. My reasoning was that this would mean a greater length of time before my hairs grew into old age, I save money.
He asked me how I was. I replied that I had been hypnotised today. He replied, his conservative mode of conversation diametrically opposed to my radical whim to get all my hair chopped off, “that’s good”. His task at hand must have been all consuming. So I buried my thoughts into the Ok magazine.
A wet curl plopped upon Jennifer Aniston’s body. I looked up to the mirror and was startled to see I had no hair.
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