You know those strange wrinkly furless cats? Imagine stroking one….not a nice feeling, and that’s what my head felt like yesterday. Yep, after my usual morning phone call I reached for a pack of plastic disposable razors and spent the next hour converting my “Covid-hair” to this super-streamlined look. And yes, before you ask, it does look as bad as you’re imagining! On the plus side, there was a lot less blood than I was expecting. I’d been umming and ahhing about if for about a month, but every time I convinced myself to take the plunge I would see another inmate appearing from his room, with partially-congealed dripping razor wounds on his scalp. The worst of all was the guy two doors down from me, who for some reason, attempted a full skinhead with a razor but no water. But, with hair clippers banned, I realised I was only putting off the inevitable.

When my crossword buddy saw it for the first time (waiting to be handed our lunch at the food service hatch yesterday), he gasped: “What have you done?!” By contrast, the other wrinkly-cat-heids we’re happy that I was adding one to their ranks: there were calls of “Yea man!” And “You’ve joined the baldie club!” There is indeed comfort in numbers.

Now that it’s done, there’s a sense of contented acceptance. An acceptance that there’s nothing I can do now except give it time to grow…and also an acceptance of my place here in prison: my “jail cut” reminds me that, for now at least, I belong here. I understand that my being here is important to society, and that punishment will provide comfort to many. Most importantly, my incarceration will act as a deterrent to others who may be heading down the path that I chose and a warning to them of how easily ones perceptions ad behaviours can become distorted.

Thankfully, by this morning the “clammy-cat” feel has been replaced by a sandpaper feel (fine grade). One unexpected side-effect is that I’ve kind of turned into a human “fuzzy-felt” board – when I try to pull my t-shirt or jumper over my head it sticks like Velcro!