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If we’d met for the first time on Thursday, you might not have recognised me today. Last night, some time around midnight (why do I always decide to do noisy things like fit new bathroom carpet or cut my hair so later at night) I dug out the clippers and took to my hair. I felt like a change.

So, I’ve taken it way, way down. Without using the guard, I shaved away at it, so that now I have something below a grade 1 - perhaps a single millimetre - on all but a fat stripe running forehead to crown. It feels good, kind of bristly, but it’s cold outside in spite of the sun.

Now I’m most certainly not the person in my passport any more, who looks to me like a long-haired, pony-tailed student, which I suppose is what I was back then. It expires next year, so I’m going to have to decide what I should look like for the next one. Perhaps more sensible, to avoid being pulled out of line at airports so often.

We went out drinking last night, downstairs at Porters, to celebrate K’s promotion. There seems to be a strange correlation in that place between the level of the lights and the volume of the music. It’s almost as though they have a limited supply of power, so that when the music gets louder the room gets darker to the point where you eventually find yourself screaming into the ear of someone you can barely see, never mind hear.

Total sensory deprivation to the thumping beat of remixed Eminem.

So, after that, and the hair shaving incident, I wasn’t up too early this morning, and it took me until eleven something to get out of the door and into the car for a drive through the sun and the early signs of spring.

Everywhere I went, there were daffodils - a million yellow trumpets saluting the arrival of the brand new season, smiling up at the clear blue sky and the bright cool sunshine above them.

I stopped off in the woods around Fryerning, treading carefully through the broken branches and fallen logs. The last time I was out there a viper had crossed my path, and I had no desire to have one crawl up the leg of my trousers. But I made it safely through the bracken and out the other side, and cut a wide arc back towards the car to continue my journey through the fields and flowers and trees.

It was a lovely way to spend the day, and even if I didn’t take too many photos, and the only place I could find to take pictures of the budding crocuses was on a grave in Buttsbury churchyard, I returned home feeling relaxed, fulfilled and happy with the world.

This entry was posted on Saturday, March 15th, 2003 at 4:47 pm and is filed under Journal, Picture story. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.