Hair

 

 

I’m walking home for lunch. It’s a bright, cold day, but when the wind dies from time to time I feel the sun through my trouser legs, pleasant and warm. I take in a deep breath of city air. It’s cold and stings my nostrils, and with it comes the sweet smell of tobacco from people smoking as they walk along, and the grey, cancerous tang of exhaust fumes. I look up and see two seagulls in the blue sky. How do I feel about it? I’m not sure. I think I should feel it heartening in some way but really, like most other things, it leaves me cold.

I’m feeling bitter because there’s a guy at work, almost half my age, with a better job than me. He’s good looking, his family are of Italian origin, and dresses sharply, too sharply if you ask me. I want to tell him he’s not on a catwalk in fucking Milan, he’s in sales for Christ’s sake. I’d like to tell him this but his father is one of the directors and I know, I just know that if I did I’d end up being fired for it. It doesn’t matter how good I am at my job, that’s just how things work at our place. He’s a smarmy, greasy motherfucker, and I’m toying with the idea of sabotaging his car when he leaves it at the office overnight, which he sometimes does. My dad told me about mixing petrol with washing up liquid, and taping it to the exhaust pipe under the car or something. When it gets hot enough it ignites and gets very sticky, like napalm. I’ll ask him again when I speak to him this weekend. He’s great, my dad. I’ll tell you all about him sometime. He’s my hero.

Viktoria and I broke up last night. I went out to the pub for a couple of drinks and met a girl with an unidentifiable but clearly eastern European accent. She seemed nice at first but there was something about her that I didn’t trust. She kept asking if I was single. I kept telling her that id broken up with my girlfriend, which is true. It was difficult to talk to her though. She didn’t say much. She seemed interested but there was something…’blocking’ our communication, like there was a wall between us, as if I kept going suddenly deaf. All the time we were sitting together I had my eye on the door, hoping Astrid would walk in, but she didn’t. I looked at her picture on my phone, and sent her a couple of texts, but there was no response. I understand though, i know she has a lot of work to do. I’m still trying not to think of Ulrika. I have to swallow very hard every time I see her name, and torture myself by looking at her photo. She still means so much to me. It really hurts…

Now the day is over and i’m at home again. It’s dark, cold and pouring with rain outside. I’m so glad it’s Friday; I’m totally ready for the weekend, especially since I have Monday off too. I’m sitting in the kitchen, having just eaten a bowl of nice Mediterranean Tomato soup and a cheese sandwich. I have drunk a litre of cheap, shitty, but strong white cider and now I’m hitting the red wine while I listen to the news on the radio. It’s 18:18 as I look at the clock. I wonder if this is another sign. The kids are around the place; Lizzie watching LA Ink in the living room, Ellen on the computer in the dining room, Mari upstairs reading and watching a film in her room. For the first time in a while I can hear myself think, but this won’t last long as Lizzie’s ‘boyfriend’ Charlie is coming over soon, and the place always erupts into chaos when he’s here. He’s a good kid; a quiet, handsome, pleasant young man, but his presence seems to make my kids turn into a bunch of wild, and very noisy, animals.

I drain a glass of wine, refill it and head upstairs to clip my hair and get a shower. I stand on the landing and look at my reflection as I drag the electric clippers over my scalp. I have been balding for a few years now, and thought it best to do the dignified thing and keep what hair I have left very short. I am a ‘zero’ all over, but I have stopped short of wet-shaving it. For some reason I think that would be a step too far. In order to balance my head I let the stubble on my face grow; it is dark and has an increasing number of grey flecks in it. I also drag the clippers across my face, so that with the exception of my eyebrows, all the hair on my entire head stays at roughly the same length.

I just about recognise the guy in the mirror today. Sometimes I haven’t a clue who he is. He has strong, dark eyebrows over a pair of hazel-green eyes which he has been told are a very nice shape and colour. He used to have the nickname ‘Maybelline’ because it looks like he wears eye makeup. His eyes have long, thick ashes and, lately, a pair of dark circles hanging beneath them. His face used to be beautiful, and now it is very handsome (the words of others, he would be excruciatingly embarrassed to use these words about himself). His face is symmetrical, with an average nose and full lips on a mouth that doesn’t smile much anymore. When it did, it was a bright, laughing smile that revealed a set of even teeth about which he wasn’t happy because all the wine and coffee had dulled them a little. He has an average build, is not fat but he has a little bit of a pot belly these days, and is 5’ 11” in height. He has a piano player’s hands with a large span and long, slender fingers. He has an angry patch of eczema which has begun to develop under his wedding ring, and this, he is absolutely certain, is another sign. Tonight the guy in the mirror is still in his work clothes: a dark blue sweater, a lighter blue shirt, a pair of grey trousers – the ones which he feels flatters his ass – and black shoes.

I take another gulp out of my wine. I can hear raised voices downstairs; it’s nothing to get angry about though, they are just calling to each other from their different rooms, not arguing. There is a knock at the door: it’s Charlie. I sigh at the guy in the mirror, finish clipping my hair, then take my wine to the bathroom, locking the door behind me.