Songbirds of our generation
Shaving my head is as much therapy and catharsis as it is my hair style, or lack thereof. There’s nothing more relaxing than the music coming through the sound of the hot shower water beating against my back as the razor glides across my skull, reflecting on all that has gone wrong and right in my life. My hopes, dreams, and ambitions permeate my mind, roaming free after being locked away deep in a vault shut with doubt and insecurity and covered in a sea of anxiety and remorse, hidden just beyond the horizon of the world.
Like puzzle pieces, these raw thoughts and emotions come together and form a theory, an idea, inspiration for my next move, whether it be what to eat later, or which path I want to, need to, have to take, to live the life I was born to live.
Standing in a tub inside a small damp room, I am more free then I could ever be; Free from the desires of man, the taste of beer, the drag from a cigarette, the yearning of intimate touch, the soft kiss of a lover, the happiness I long to spread. All of it, gone, in that moment. It’s just myself, and my razor, and my thoughts. My Id. No more pressure.
And with that last swipe of the blade, like a ghost in the shadows, the world begins to haunt me once again. My time on the couch is up, and I must rinse off, dry myself, reflect on my revelations, and return to the world as I left it, hopefully a better man.
So yeah, that’s why I usually take so fucking long in the bathroom.