Speaking of Cindy, she does my hair. Very home-made, out the back at the bookshop, no head massage, no water, just the scissors that we use to cut the ribbons with, sharpened on the edge of a glass. So you should open an S and M salon, we tell her, you are almost there now. We talk of clients strapped in to their chairs, you get what we give you. Cuts with odd names, the hard perm, slash and lash #2. Hosed down at the end of it. Just a joke I suppose but I can see the appeal. Sometimes you are just too tired for a hair cut. Sometimes you are just too tired for the idea of love.
I am exhausted. It has been an odd two months. I haven't the patience for games, flirtation, apologies, niceties. I just love you so shut up, I say. I don't care what you feel or think or say to me. I don't care about your needling or your little barbs. If I had three days to live we wouldn't have time for all the toing and froing. We would just lie side by side, chaste as children and hug. I would rest my breath on the back of your neck because that is what I like most. It would be like Cindy's salon. Shut up. Accept love. Don't be an idiot. The same can be said for myself.
So strap me to your chair. Cut my hair. Tell me what to wear. Wrestle me into a hug, because we are all going to die. Sometime. Tomorrow.