Almost Cut My Hair

"Don't shine the light into my eyes", I screamed. The song was called Tantrum and had been a live favourite. For diggers of lost treasure, it's from a CD album called Bruises For Everyone, circa ‘98. I'm not sure if the other band members knew the song was diaristic, perhaps only that it served as a faithful grunge track that we all felt Kurdt would have been proud of. Aside from references to my teenage incontinence, the line in question was inspired by a memory of my ballistic freaking out in the optometrist in Rainham Precinct. I was a soft child, with no aggressive tendencies whatsoever. Mother was there, which is my only indicator of age. Anywhere between age 5 - 10, I'd guess. I had bucked like a spiked horse, spine arched, legs and arms kicking back. Through the dark, I launched a full body attack against the chrome mechanical devices and scientific apparatus. They tried to hold me down, but I did not waver in my assault. I vaguely remember being carried out, and that, was that.

Hair has gotten too long, a constant dreaded knot at the back, concealed by lank greasy curls that are reaching past my shoulder blades. Spring has started to tease into Summer, and a Winter lived in painting trousers and various shades of black Primark t-shirts accumulated across a decade of Christmases, has all started to feel a bit worn, dirty, and unwell.

I arrived ten minutes early and smoked a cigarette on the high street. Enter inside, and it's busier than I expected. Cheerful greetings, soft alt rock from the speakers, there wasn't anything amiss. I knew of course, the issue.

Sat down - trim please, no style needed, agreed. Mirrors aren't the best, nor are windows out toward the high street. I hope no one sees me having this done, but I don’t know why. None of this is new. But none of this was the real issue, either. It came on stronger than usual today. I mean, it was awful. With every stroke of the comb, a lightning rod from the soft top of my skull. Like a tickle with barbed wire fingers. Hard shivers, a feeling I fail to describe. My whole insides convulsing, visibly rigid. They've definitely noticed. I am now flinching everytime the comb strokes over the top of my head. A continuing physical wince. Recoiling. Of course I'm aware of the ridiculousness of it all. But that awareness only sharpens my focus on the feeling. They ask if I want to be faced away from the mirror, and swivel my chair toward the high street. It’s not the mirror that's the problem of course, and the high street view is far worse. I decline, politely. I understand why they'd think the mirror might be causing the issue, and I appreciated that they had subtly tried to make things a little more comfortable for me. On this occasion, there was no chance. It’s not something that explains very well.

From the other side of the mirror, my mind is thinking about AI, but I’m arguing against myself today (Where The Ok Crow Flies). Perhaps, it’s a future magick, a personal assistant through which we can project our thoughts, make visible, external, a perfect simulation. Any limitations of physical ability are overcome. The body is redundant, needs only function to feed the brain. Virtual reality actual. Skill free hands. Manifest horror. Could it be ascension. Aided by psychedlics. Finally, each to their own. A new and awful democracy. Freedom of abuse. Choose your own adventure. No, not for me. I am an ancient child. Mental atrophy. Psychoslavery. Never trust a human. I break machines. This is all a knotted contradiction. My twisted melon on a happy Monday, except it’s Tuesday, and with that, soft indie rock from the speakers pulls me into sharp focus once again.

Suspended in a state of overwhelming physical distress until the final cut. A beautiful and palpable release of tension when we agree they is no need for anymore. I felt the whole room shift in atmosphere, followed by a flash intuition that the other hairdresser and various customers had all noticed the strangeness. I can only be sure her and I were relieved when it was over. At the till, I felt I should have paid double for their trouble, and I would have done, if I could have afforded it. I said thank you and sorry, and shuffled back home. The top of my head winced for the remainder of the day, but three days later, and I feel fit for Summer.

Around these ways, when the light hits right, it can appear like the Californian coast might have felt in the late 60s. There is a Gallic fata morgana to the east, and green parks and white cliffs to either side of my outstretched arms. Psychedelic and free from the city. Sage flames. Sea change. Quiet rebellions. Cold spells. Strange friends. Spectrum dwellers in communion, digging a dirt scorned by a thousand years of invader tribes. Ya f'king wantsum?

Here comes the sun.
LUPEN CROOK

Art Desk, May 2026