Some times it felt like he was collecting hair. He had a place to store it, all that hair. On top of and around his head. A mass. Spilling up and out and over until, as his grandfather would say: enough was sufficient.
The next Saturday morning he’d bike down to the barbershop and trade it all, all that work, all that mass for a look at the floor, the hair-covered floor. A chair-spin and a quick peek at the back of his head, a place he generally figured was there but most of the month took on faith.
Then hopping off the chair, his head streamlined, and back on the bike. On the ride down to the shop, he’d had an awkward sail on his head, fighting the wind. Now the air cut through clear in deep strokes.
Most days, without really thinking much about it, he’d take this new do for a ride, over to the main shopping street where moms and dads floated in and out of cheese and butcher shops, other kids streamed through toy and book store doors.
And of course no one noticed and that was fine. So he’d turn back, cold air now wrapping his neck.
It was a fresh new start to the whole everything. He was proud but not vain. Leaning into his handlebars for drama. Head down, eyes up. Zoom.
