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6.25.2007
“Wow, your hair is really short. What happened to you?”
…
Maybe a month ago I cut off approximately 10 inches of hair. I guess I needed a change. I got frustrated with it weighing me down, getting in my way. It was just always in my way. Just go away. Don’t be there. Don’t be there for the bad times. Don’t be there for the good times. I can do this myself now.
I watch the strands fall to the ground. They look fake. Like a pile of fake hair, lying listlessly on the salon floor. Should I have given this more thought? Maybe I should have given this more thought.
“How do you feel?” the wifey asks, her eyes wide. It’s a big change for her, and I guess a big change for me as well.
“Not bad,” I shrug. It’s nothing. It’s a hair cut. It’s casual. There’s really no big deal here.
But just between you and me, I want to tear the rest out. I want strands wrapped around my knuckles as I violently pull and pull and pull. There’s a kind of maniacal satisfaction to be had here. I run my fingers through what’s left of my hair. I pretend to scrutinize the cut while I fantasize about grabbing fistfuls of follicles and brutally ripping them from their tender roots. Ripping until there’s nothing left but a pile of fake hair on the salon floor. What type of sounds would that make? I close my eyes and imagine what that feels like to have torn everything out. A heaping sense of relief, of pleasure, of comfort envelope me. So palpable. I find myself starting to salivate.
That night I go in to teach my evening class. What happened? My students all ask. Did something bad happen? I act surprised.
No, nothing bad has happened. I just wanted a hair cut.
