The last time I cut my hair was a little more than a year ago, in late spring 2012. Since then I've given up the color (too not-me), learned how to walk again, and decided that fuck it, life's too fleeting to spend the rest of it all bolloxed up inside.
I don't regret the first two decisions. The third one? I just made it, so the internal jury is still debating its merits. Being in a defensive crouch has kept the possibility of bad shit at bay. But it has also kept me away from whatever good may still be out there.
I'm too good a person to throw myself on the ash heap. Tonight, on the eve of celebrating the first anniversary of a literal falling down, I'm getting back up — out of the defensive crouch that's cramped my legs and my style. I may not be anyone's idea of handsome, and I don't expect to be attracting the romantic attention of any comely lasses for the rest of my days — and I don't really care anymore. The people who don't want to spend any time with me are going to miss out on my best days. The people who choose to be in my orbit are in for a few surprises.
As for the people who stuck by me in this past year of turmoil: for as long as I'm alive, they have my thanks, and I have their backs.