Hair

On Saturday the Tenth of February I sat in a chair and had my hair cut. In that well lit mirror I watched my hair chopped, I saw it snipped and sliced, I saw locks come tumbling down and months and years fall from me. And as I saw all of this, something lifted from me. Understand this: every day for four long years of sickness, every day, whether it was crawling from my bed in the morning, waking in some fluorescent hospital ward, or vomiting into some unknown toilet, every day I would look at myself in the mirror, to see those gaunt, haunted, dilated pupils, to see that face, long haired and unshaven, to see my self. And though I will always have those memories, I want no more reminders; it is time to move on. So, on Saturday the Tenth of February I sat in a chair and had my hair cut. At £61.89 it was the cheapest therapy I've ever had.