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“You need a haircut, boy!” My father had only glanced at me across the kitchen table as he spoke but I had already seen in his eyes the coming storm. I hoped that my going to the barber's during school lunch break the next day would appease him. I had to get some water or I was going to choke, or worse, cry. I got up from the table and moved towards the sink. He threw me up on top of a workbench. He was baying now, not just shouting. You couldn't understand what he was saying but I know it had to do with my hair and my water drinking and how fucking useless and insolent and pathetic I was, but it wasn't coherent. Soon my head was propelled forward by his hand, the other one wielding a rusty pair of clippers that he used on the sheep we had in the field in front of our house. They were blunt and dirty and they cut my skin, but my father shaved my head with them, holding me down like an animal. (en) |
