I had my hair cut at a salon for the first time in twenty-five years. (A strong aversion to hair salons may develop when a hapless child is sent into a hair salon catering to old women for a perm twice a year until she is an adult.) I made the appointment with the husband’s cousin’s wife by Whatsapp after a few gin and sodas. I suppose these are the decisions you make when you're drinking gin and waiting for your period and whatever change you want in your life isn't happening because you haven't dreamt its form yet.

RIP: eight inches of pandemic hair, lying on the floor like a mangled witch's familiar. The rest: blow-dried and straightened, cut just past the shoulders, in layers. Tamed, for now. I'm not sure how I feel about it. I do not recognise myself. Maybe because it is shiny and straight, when it is usually unbrushed and a little frizzy and often so unmanageable, I wouldn't have been surprised if a wee animal had managed to nest in it. Afterwards we had lunch at the castle cafe, and I felt like it was the husband, myself, and my haircut having lunch.





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