“Who am I doing this for?” I left the scissors back on the bathroom sink and looked at myself in the mirror. Wasn’t very convinced. M had said I should just go ahead and do it. But looking for a girl’s approval was just an excuse. I was ready to pull the trigger. “Fuck it.” Put the gun against my forehead and shot it. The gun was, of course, a hair trimmer. The victim, my hair.
I once read that Buddhist monks shave their heads as a sign of humbleness. And, of course, makes a hell of a lot of sense. Our hairstyle is such an important part of our overall look; the way in which we present ourselves to the world. Or, in my case, to women. Which is exactly why I shaved my head yesterday. Because, in this time of constant questioning of everything, the “what am I doing with my life” was the most common question that popped up in my mind. And that question came up mostly when I found myself in decadent parties, boring bars, shallow clubs. “Is this it? Being single? Being in Denmark? What the fuck am I doing this for?” So fuck it. Fuck flirting. Fuck trying to be attractive. Fuck being the sexiest guy on the dance floor -which I know I am, anyway. Fuck all that shit. And fuck my exotic thick and dark hair. It will grow back. And maybe, when it does, I will have already grown too. Grown up, that is.