The other night I shaved my head. I did it in the narrow bathroom of our flat; the clipper plugged in to an extension cable, the extension cable plugged in to a socket in the kitchen. We have a small flat.
The clippers buzzed and vibrated in my hand and the blades oscillated and bit their way through a thousand follicles, then another thousand. The wall opposite the bath is tiled with mirrors and bent over and into the bath I watched as my hair fell upwards from my reflected head, dropping into the porcelain bathtub that hovered above me.
Held upside down for a long time my face looked red and bloated, like someone had their hands around my neck and was slowly, gently chocking me. The bathroom grew hotter as I shaved, or I grew hotter. Molecules of sweat pricked out of pores and shards of hair stuck to this sweat, covering my shoulders with a soft, uneven pelt.
There were still long bits around the ears and wispy bits around the back of the neck but I stopped anyway. My girlfriend cuts my hair sometimes, normally, finishes it off by shaving the sides and back and I wanted her to finish it off this time as well, but she was out.
I ran my hand over my newly shorn scalp one way and then the other, smooth and then prickly. Soft and slightly greasy.
It’ll do until tomorrow.