Let's romanticize hair

7th June 2015
My bathroom: 2AM

I'm stood in front of my dimly illuminated reflection. On the stark-white sink counter sits a pair of the most intimidating scissors I could find at this hour, next to a couple of hair ties and my vibrating phone.

I've separated my hair into two silky, black tails that fall stick-straight to my waist. They're like two ropes I can hold onto; they'll pull me back on deck if I drift too far at sea. Their airy presence has blanketed my back and sides, shielded the nape of my neck from the tingling of perceived stares.

Tonight I've decided I'm done with comforting attachments.


My gaze shifts to my buzzing phone.

"You done?" It's my brother whatsaap-ing me from his bedroom across the hall.
"Nope."
"Hurry up already! I wanna sleep."
"Aren't you gonna stop me?"
"Nah. I wanna see how stupid you'll look. Send me a pic when it's done."
"jerk"
"snip snip"

It's so much easier to justify simple actions when you turn them into such romantic notions; assign meaning to changes that, to an outsider, might as well be arbitrary.

He's right though, it's time to snip snip.

The metallic blade is cold against my jaw and I can't keep my hand still.

Hang on.
Am I really this afraid to chop off some dead keratin, the presence of which serves me no purpose whatsoever? My inner existentialist is offended.
Now I really want it gone.

Off with it! With a firm grip on the scissors this time, I fancy myself an executioner.