A few days before Valentine, seventeen, I shaved my head undefinely out of hedonistic tendencies, standing in front of that blue sink. It felt holy. The scissors, I meant. The cold, erratic graze of plastic touch or was it metal pairs against my neck down to my coarse bone corset.
When I was six, mum gave me a buzzcut and nipped my neck within split second; hurt marked delayed impulses. The diffracted sound screech of the scissors in her hand echoed and I'll run my hand on my neck. I think I hadn't felt the sting until my nails picked up the sharp sting. Now I look back at those ugly pictures of me as a kid with blooshot eyes and giggles halfheartedly. That kid. She had believed in straight narration of progress but look at her now. A confused being getting yelled by her mom for her bald head.
There's courage in facing your fears headfirst (pun intended).
I've changed a lot this year I'd like to think and well, I began to notice I'm no longer able to write beautifully to the extent every words I spew are harsh and take forms of sharp edges.
Also, I've wondered just before what my head really looks like underneath and I deeply wanted to know myself, what I'm capable of wrecking on my own. It gets pretty cold at night and my head feels the wind so I barely sleep these February nights.
About writing beautifully, I don't know, maybe I have nothing much happening to translate of anymore. I try not to lose it, though. February ends and April is just approximately a month away.
I'm telling you, everyone seemed insincere during Valentine that I hated myself for getting excited, hoping to see their face lights up with cheap paper cards. Love indeed is "temporary lack of judgment," as he claimed. Did you tell me how to let go?
I miss my young self, not my hair. I could not give less fuck about having someone around or growing out hair before grandma comes around for Eid. I knew myself before I knew anyone.
Did I tell you how lessons are learned and letting go is very, very hard to do?
