Picking up his father’s electric razor, Brendan proceeded to shave all his hair off, letting it fall on the squeezed out tubes of his acne medication. Smiling, Brendan admired his handiwork in the mirror. His mother had often told him through the pages of her Vanity Fair that his hair was ‘a bit too unruly’. Bullshit, he had thought, it was edgy, and it would change everything. Yet his hair only came with more coddling, and requests to see his hair dresser, Katie. His hair did not change everything. His hair had only made him more self-aware of the fact he was fifteen.
Now his head felt smooth. Smooth, yet truly unruly. Ten months worth of hair sat before him, and he couldn’t help but watch as each lock proceeded to droop mournfully into a heap. It was sad to think that this ‘mane’ of hair was an act of rebellion.
Looking at the pile, he thought he must have been nothing short of matronly with such a head of hair. He wanted to pay tribute to it in a deeply impersonal fashion. With complete fortitude, Brendan gathered each lock and placed them in a large Ziplock bag. Each clump of hair felt caustic. Yet the Ziplock bag was more than appropriate to support the heap.
Bag in hand, Brendan pinned it to his wall, and let it hang for all to see.