I woke to the greyish-green light of a reluctant dawn. It was the kind of day that had nothing to sell, the kind that’s dragged kicking and screaming from the night. My head was splitting at the fault lines and it was raining again. Or still. I couldn’t tell which. I pulled a pillow over my face and felt something scratch my wrist: a pink paper wristband, glued at the edges. Mascara stained my pillow and a crumpled pair of jeans lay in the bed beside me. Slowly, images from the night before crawled forth from the clearing fog of my brain.
And then I remembered.
I rolled over and groaned. It was happening again. Or still. I couldn’t tell which.
I’ve been writing for the past three hours, but all I really want to tell you is that I cut my hair on Saturday. Twenty minutes and a pair of dull scissors and I’m a whole new person, I suppose.
It’s sleek and it’s short and it’s very nearly black. It’s uncluttered and it’s undemanding.