When I cut off my dreads, there were pieces of black fuzz still stuck to the tips. Things I had been carrying around with me for the last year.
I picked it out with oily fingers, bit by bit, and washed it hard, marveling at the way the back of my head feels, now that I can really grab a hold of it. I am lighter.
Now I find myself with the exact same haircut I had last year at this time, just before the short hair and the pink lion’s mane. (“Business in the front, party in the back!”) And yet everything is different.
This time last year I had no wagon of my own, had no job in Frankfurt, had no job at all. I wasn’t married, the band had never played a concert, and I had no idea when I would see America again.
It was warm there was beer and malt to be drunk and there were oranges to be dumpstered. There still are.
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