Flight the fight

In response to fear, my hair yearned for a haircut, to be relieved of the mass that weigh heavy down in a mess equivalent to the one in my head. At the hair salon with my head in the bowl getting shampooed and hosed down, I realised the weight has lifted and my mind now shifted its attention to the tightness of my being, bounded by the ropes of anxiety extending from my heart. My back was a mosaic of tight knots and frayed nerves, tangled upon every vertebrate of my spine.

Rooted and rigid in the salon chair I sat as the hairdresser snipped away at my hair, getting the length way too short and returning the weight back upon my shoulders. Which is very unfortunate as it seems that I will be wearing a horrible stress-induced haircut all the way to my grave tomorrow.

It’s Psychometric finals day.

Farewell good world.

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