She came down from her bedroom with her heavy blonde fringe clipped off her face. We all tried not to comment at this some what drastic and desperate bid for a change in appearance - so ate breakfast in silence. And I kissed the bald forehead as it tried to run out the door and I prayed the next morning the fringe would be back and the attitude reduce but it never reappeared. And there were a lot of tears that year. Tears over minor mistakes that caused the greatest arguments. She wasn’t strong but there was no guessing her. No willing. Nor trying.
Lost in it for years, because we all believe we are meant to have found ourselves by now. And sometimes it feels right, when you’re pulling down your newly prescribed glasses to look at a drawing you’re producing. It ticks into place and you feel adult. For forty minutes, then you can’t answer a question because you’re boss found you day dreaming of that TV programme and that boy. You realise you haven’t quite got it down like the rest of the office. Because no one else rests their head in their hands or on the cold desk at that point between 11 and lunch when time seems to go so slow and everyone looks at you when you sigh at the computer. It feels as though they’re all wondering how long you’ll last. I wonder why I am trying so hard to conform for the first time ever. When did I suddenly decide I needed to grow up with an adult job and start dating men that work 9-5’s but have no real conversational skills, and rent a flat in a city I can’t be content with.
I clip back my fringe.
