Week 42, 2026: Bob
Typing and editing from a bar. The birthday girl wanted to go line-dancing. The first two dances have not been too bad. The second was fun, even. I like the little twirls but still can't get used to all the stomping. One incentive to learn the moves is to avoid having your foot stomped on by a heavily-tatted lesbian in cowboy boots.
She met me at Levant Pizza first, after I devoured four slices. Two pepperoni, two garlic and zaatar. The waitress has an English accent and looks like my friend Maisie. When the playlist on speaker was interrupted by a Spotify Premium ad, it gave me a funny cozy feeling.
Jemima likes the new hair look. Whenever I part ways with her, I feel inspired to find new ways to be a good person. My hair stylist Selena did a fantastic job. She said I was the fiftieth person to say I found the hair salon through Reddit and I made a face. Long strands of 3B curls fell to the floor while we bonded over trips we’d done in southwest Asia. I wanted her to keep cutting so we could keep talking. It wasn’t until later that I noticed just how short my hair was, in the harsh light of my bathroom. It used to be bra-strap-length and now went just past my ears. I have a bob.
Three years of hair growth are behind me and I feel light. Light and unencumbered. Full of the feeling of being a different person. Someone who follows local politics and says pardon instead of what’s that?
The feeling of being a different person felt good. It felt so good that I stopped in front of a piercing and tattoo parlour and blankly stared. It felt so good that I wanted to feel better, wanted to feel like a different person in a bigger and more dramatic fashion. It felt so good that it no longer felt enough. And if it weren’t for the words repeating in my head (blood permanent bone pain wound scab fade), I would’ve followed through with these instincts instead of going home and watching the new documentary about Norm MacDonald.
Earlier that day, I’d gone into a cafe for lunch. I ordered a sandwich and a soda and eyed the newspaper they left on my table. It was the sports section, face up on a baseball opinion piece. I read the first few lines and got irritated by the second sentence being a quote and set it aside. The owners brought out two pieces of complimentary baklava for me and I was surprised and grateful each time. A small yellow bird sat in a cage above the soda fridge, its chest moving rapidly. I could tell the owner spoke Arabic but did not feel like going there. It feels nice at times to pretend to be a different person, someone free of strings and mother tongues.
My first and only flat viewing since handing in my notice went great. I sent a message letting one of the girls in the flatshare know I was interested ten minutes after I left. I’m still waiting to hear back. I’ve been filling in Google Forms to request viewings. That’s a thing now, personality hires for flatshares. One form asked about my passions and I said something about hummus. I can’t get myself to take it seriously but I need to remember that this is how I’ll put a roof over my head.
The collection of short stories I read by Lorrie Moore was wonderful. That was a highlight from early in the week. And dinner with Diane. She gifted me a jacket that I’ve worn every day since parting ways with her. I’ve spent the rest of my free time shopping for birthday presents for a girl who might leave the country in May.