Brutal

I would like hair like this please. Le Chop! Yes, let’s do it, I’ve had the same hair for a couple of years now, time for a change. Snip, snip, snip. And there it is, not quite what I had in my head, now on my head. Artfully messy. Short. Right. Last time I had short hair I felt un-feminized, I looked like a little boy. I was travelling at the time, had no body fat from stomach upsets and no space for skirts in my rucksack. This time I am too fleshy and too old to be a boy. There is no need to wear lipstick, though I still put more make up on than usual. It resolutely does not want to remain dishevelled and keeps flopping into order. I buy wax, which is fun but smells funny.

 

   When I venture out I am self-conscious, smaller, unsure. I have no curtain to hide behind. I used to celebrate a new haircut with delight, similar to the excitement of a new tattoo or a piercing. What has happened to me? When did I timidify? It is a good cut, I like it but at the same time I am Samson and have no strength to walk at my usual pace.