If I haven’t been writing a lot of late, it would have to be due to a lack of creative thoughts of late, a crime for which there could be any number of culprits. If it isn’t tiredness or the frustration and hindrance of my broken hand, I’ve been dreadfully short of inspiration of late due to falling into the terrible routine of a man unable to operate heavy machinery or do most anything involving the use of both hands.
My emancipation draws nigh however, with only twelve days remaining until I shall be reacquainted with my now withered and feeble forearm.
Sooner still I will be free of another load, that being the hair atop my head. This loss, as opposed to my plaster prison chains, has significantly more dire social consequences. For almost eight years now, I have been recognisable on sight from any angle at as great a distance as you might distinguish one thing from another. My particularly thick red hair, somewhat explosive in nature, is a thing rather uncommon to find in such lengths on the stature of a man. While on occasion it has given me cause to wish it away for the sake of disguise, for the better part of its tenure it has made the arrangement of meetings and my being recognised and recollected quite simple.
In the week gone by, two people the neither or which I have seen in half a decade spotted me walking through the city and made their way over to say hello having spotted me. The Saturday just gone I was walking from a train station to a bar and not one but two cars pulled up within moments of each other to offer me a lift, the first driven by a girl that I know and the other by an older fellow that I had met but once on an evening ride through the hills.
For years my hair has served as a giant reminder, a bright sign posted on my head stating “HERE I AM” and now that sign is coming down. So with my hair, I too lose a part of my identity. Not so much as to affect my sense of self (as is routinely done in military establishments), but as part of my social identity, the perception of myself by those around me. And so I slide into the general anonymity of the crowd once again.
I’m looking forward to the practically non-existent maintenance schedule, but I will only know with time whether people notice me because of myself or because of the mane behind me.