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  • Day 18
    *^

    Bed and laziness are good friends, they often like to hang out late at noon.

    You can live in another world but you have to understand the rules of this one.

    I have got convictions, until I've got others.

    I have changed my mind and booked the hairdresser for later. I like to go to Good Old Days on Broadway market but I haven't been there for a while, last time I cut my hair myself, I did it with a pair of scissors and some confidence, I went a bit bold but not bald.

    There must be length discrepancies, I can feel them when I am pensive.

    I hope it is not disrespectful towards the work of your hairdresser to cut your own hair yourself as a total amateur, it has grown back since though, but I guess she will probably notice the mistakes I have done, notice a side of my personality that likes freedom.

    **

    I jumped out of the bus at the wrong stop and it is not that I have missed it because I left at the one before. I don't know if it is kind of stupid but I felt the rush, the impulse, I suddenly wanted to walk expressly, to spend some energy, to feel the ground under my feet and my body moving to the speed of pace, I guess I like walking and I am going to be seated on my derrière for an hour, just moving the neck and the mouth.


    The good thing about going to the same hairdresser is you can avoid the whereyoufrom&whatyoudo conversation, you can just talk about how come you ended up cutting your hair yourself whilst she is looking closely to what you have done and what has to be done this time to rebalance it.
    I guess it brings a bit of Jazz.


    I am kind of surprised she reacts positively, she is kind of surprised too, she says it suits me with shorter hair and maybe we should do something alike this time.


    I'm having a head massage and cup of tea, not a cut of pea, a cup of green tea.


    I realise, by the way things are set in a hair salon, I get to look at my hairdresser mostly through the mirror than face to face, as if I was watching her on a screen, she becomes more of an animated image than a real person even though I can feel her hands on my head, and when she moves to one side and I get to see her for real, I get kind of impressed for some reason, maybe it is the force of reality.

    She says I'm frowning quite a lot, so I ask her if she thinks it is a bad thing, she says it is not a bad thing to frown but normally people take the chance to relax themselves in a hair salon.

    I truly thought I was relaxed before she said that, maybe I'm frowning too often so it also appears when I'm relaxed, maybe I am not that relaxed.

    She is cutting, pulling, twisting, trimming hair, opening and closing the X of her pair of blades with flair whilst the music in the air and the others on their chair remain to a peaceful affair.

    She is readjusting the style with products and conducting my curls with tolerance, knowing they will end up going their own way anyway.

    She is giving the last touches, I am discovering my new visage, smiling at my face in the mirror, noticing the wrinkles around my eyes, I feel refreshed.

    I thank her and go typing my secret pincode on the card machine to the receptionist.

    Having a haircut is like cleaning the bedroom of your thoughts.

    As I am walking outside I feel some positivity coming through me and I feel the desire to share it, I go to La Bouche to see if Pierre is working today.


    Pierre is not working today and his phone is not ringing either so I decide to walk back home and take the chance to visit some friends who live on the way, I look through the contact list on my phone and call the ones who shouldn't be busy at this hour.


    Sometimes, it seems my phone is unable to reach anyone so I try not to take it personally and keep walking my way home, under my fringe and the kilometres of sky the atmosphere is offering me.


    I like East London, it is not as charming as Notting Hill but it has its own thing, there are more artists here than there are cctv cameras in the West End perhaps, perhaps not.


    I also like my neighbourhood because there are dudes who like to rap and freestyle on their own whilst walking or on the train, headphones on their ears or following a beat from a telephone, with a few lines, few rhymes, you know what it is about, landing words on a flow like birds on a phone wire, higher, at the speed of thought, faster than light and neutrinos, new tree knows, with no dose of rose prose on the beat, with the alphabet, shining in the dark like a comet, they like to comment, nothing is more precious than the present moment.


    The walls of bricks, the twisted little streets, the lack of temperature, the house numbers painted on bins, the missing street name signs, the yellow lines, the red lines, the dots for blind people, the smell of chicken, the joggers between their headphones, the cyclists under their helmets covered with neon colours, the dogs pulling on their leads, the dark round public litters, the puddles on pavements, the cubic shape of council estates blocks, the ghosts of old graffitis, the bulimic pigeons, the cats watching them, the fancy bicycles, the colourful outfits, the people inside the barbershops, the portrait pictures on their windows, the Turkish delights, the skinny jeans, the smell of weed, the screens inside the betting shops, the bike carcasses, the neat and green parks, the benches, the youngsters' way of talking, the adverts on buses, the tiny phone shops, the queues, the pubs with 'arms' in their names, the afros hairstyles, the bay windows, the leather shorts, the cardigans, the 24 hours party people, the people talking to their phone, the sweaty kebabs spinning, the police sirens and their frenzy way of driving, the drunk beggars, the drink offers, the bus stop posts with their letters on the top, the smile of some girls passing by, the guys with long hair holding a guitar box, the trousers rolled up, the beanies rolled up, the first page of news paper's shouting, the tabloids, the plastic bowls of fruits parading by the corner shops, the noise of buses accelerating, the uniforms on kids, the fluorescent ambulances, the music explosions from the arrogant cars, the dark costumes of religious people, the nifty jumpers, the different accents, the new promo posters, the pound shops, the second hand shops, the charity shops, the formulas of politeness, the foldable bicycles, the people smoking at their window, the scaffoldings, the trees bursting out of the concrete, the noise of skateboards popping, the white pedestrian button on the traffic light, the wait light, the white bus lane letters on the road, the cctv cameras following people, the heads enveloped in hoodies, the hairstyle freedom of expression, the greed of estate agencies, the mini cabs, the maxi carb bottles in the windows, the organic prairies, the mothers behind their baby's thrones rolling, the British charm on faces, the vibe of the buskers, the trains sliding under the sky, the heads inside the carriages, the phone lines meeting on posts, the pieces of art above the bus stops, the people waiting under, the monuments menu, the normal bicycles, the wind playing with long hair, the disco pants flashing derrières, the fast restaurants, the sloganisation, the free catalogues, the freegiftisation, the noise of plastic bags, the bags of crisps, the people hugging, the beauty in their eyes, the sound of humming sinking down my chest. Humming is good.

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