I stepped outside the house alone for half an hour, to try and escape my bungeeing emotions for a little while.
Popped into the barbers at the end of the street and settled into the chair.
“Half all over, please mate.”
He frowned at my already short hair.
“You want a hair cut?”
Half an hour after he’d scraped the clippers over my head I was back alongside my Grandma’s bed.
Her sight is failing and she enjoyed running her hand over the barren corn stubble on my scalp.
And today I realised what I was doing.
I wasn’t sharpening my look, or even finding an excuse to take a half hour’s break.
I was making myself look more aggressive, less approachable, harder, with more visible angles.
Because when people got close to me and said “Are you ok?” I started crying.
And I didn’t want strangers spotting the look on my face and feeling obliged to ask.
So I made myself look like a cunt.
To save myself from feeling weak.