The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 26

Clumps of hair gathered on the laminate floor around the reclining barber chair. Long tresses, I had spent eight months cultivating and allowing to grow. Pieces of me severed by clippers and scissors, being swept away by the barber's brush. It was too late to start getting wistful. Besides, part of me welcomed the swelling sweep of change.

Change is good. Change is exciting. Chant the mantra enough, and you might believe it.

The results staring back at me from the mirror were decidedly unimpressive. Average, verging on bland. Nothing a decent dollop of gel couldn't fix.

And it did.

My new haircut garnered the attention I had hoped for. The women at work cooed and dished out compliments I was unused to receiving from the opposite sex. By the time I had reached the aisle, my cheeks flush, and my head had expanded exponentially in size.

Short hair took getting used to. Often, my hand would wander to my brow to flick away a phantom fringe.

The new do even provoked a lunch-break debate. The overwhelming consensus was I looked smart, a spruced-up version of one of the lads. Nicky was the lone dissenting voice. She thought my previous style fit my personality.

I started hanging out with Keith a lot more. After work we'd end up back at his house, smoking a spliff, slumped in our seats watching Steven Seagal beat seven shades of shit out of bad guys. The corny wise-cracks worked when you're stoned. And you could talk through the movie without worrying about missing relevant plot details. A throwback to the type of action movies I loved in my younger years—before my life became a Tennessee Williams drama.

For the first time in aeons, I felt free from the pressure of being.

Keith's pals would often drop by with beers and more dope. Sometimes there would be twelve of us crammed into the tiny sitting-room. People sat on arm-rests or the floor. Mostly they talked about white-label releases and the coolest club DJs. I knew nothing about any of this, so I stayed quiet. They told jokes I didn't find funny, but laughter is infectious, and I'd laugh along with them. And try as I might, I could not get into dance music. Songs without meaningful lyrics are the equivalent of a football stadium minus fans; structurally impressive but lacking soul.

Most of the lads had nicknames. Usually, this meant an o, y, or er amended to their surname or Christian name. We had a Macker, Johnno, Philly, Davey, Dunner and a Jayo. Others were more inventive; Budgie, Skinny, Jambo, Moff, Bosco, Clinker, and Yogi. I kind of hoped the guys would coin an affectionate nickname for me. All my life, people called me Aaron or Murphy. I didn't count that time in junior school when I got branded Fashion by the older students—that wasn't a term of endearment. It was a straight-up insult.

Yogi referred to me as the quiet man. It didn't take with the others.

May arrived, and we entered the last month of the term. As fifth-years have no exams of major import, skipping classes was less of a big deal. If you showed your face during the day, the teachers would cut you some slack. Keith and I took advantage of this laxity to spend our early mornings dossing in an arcade, shooting pool, and disappearing round to a nearby alley to blaze a joint.

The Hide-out emporium was as shady as its name sounded. Although only supposed to allow adults on its premises, the bored, balding manager turned a blind eye. All he required was we remove our school jumpers and ties upon entry and stash them in our bags. That, he maintained, offered him plausible deniability should the police visit him.

"You gonna tell them you thought we were midget Jehovah's Witnesses whose clothes ran in the wash?" I said, slinging my bulging knapsack over my shoulder and glancing down at my grey shirt and slacks.