I Do Know Myself

I once knew a man who never cut his hair. He was not exactly the everyday type; instead he exhibited a resolute sort of commonness—the kind that warms the fingers and toes, but encases the heart in an icy chill. It was not that he was aloof, or even untrue. No, he had a very compelling smile, which he often showed in broad display as a greeting to anyone he passed.
His figure was quite large, and he reminded me of one of those wonderful grandparents who always gave humongous bear hugs. Even so, he also seemed to be the type of person who would enjoy such a hug himself; as he was never without an unrestrained playfulness about him. In fact, he was the most attentive person I have ever met, and always spent the time to console me of my problems or enjoy a nice cup of coffee in my living room. And, if there was one thing at which he was never to be outdone, it was his tidiness. His long mane of hair—which passed well below his knee—was always well groomed and constantly complimented by the most expensive shoes he could find; despite having no use for them.
I found it funny how he could never be forced to shorten his hair. It had stubbornly grown to such a length that he always needed me to help him with it. I have no doubts that it got in his way, but he always seemed to enjoy the numbing presence he said the hair brought him.
Truthfully, the way he acted caused me to believe that all his cares were a matter of unconscious effort, which, were he left to himself, would all but disappear. His own knowledge of this reality was likely the reason that he his honesty surpassed all other aspects of his character. According to his recollection, as a young child, whenever one of his classmates committed a ‘dishonourable’ act, he was able to reconcile that very same student within a single conversation. This ability had developed with time, and now allowed him to be fully truthful with himself. I don’t doubt that in his super-human capacity for truth there was no sentiment that he could not immediately identify as false or illusory. In fact, he was far more open with me than I was with myself; so much so that I couldn’t but fail to feel sympathy for him.
For myself, I would never admit my own thoughts, aloud or otherwise, but I always wondered what it was that chilled my soul so eternally. I truly knew what it was, but never admitted. I used to lie, about everything. Maybe that’s what created such an attraction between us. So what?
I always pretended that the reason for this was his personality: so warm that it heated my extremities but choked off all else, so that my insides felt cold in comparison. But I never really believed. So I forced my to dodge his grin, evading the iciness that hid beneath it.
I allowed this to happen for several months before finally understanding the truth. My insides had been eaten out by the deathless hole that marred his figure. I drew a deep cavity in my own soul while trying to fill out his. I lay in bed, for days, deathly and helpless before I could finally resolve myself to admit the truth. It was then that I went to see him. Before I could truly discover what I saw, I had to look him in the eyes and see what I had hidden from myself.
I found him lying in a bed, breathless and deathly pale. It was like out of a dream. And it was in this dream that I finally saw what I would not glimpse before. I looked through the tainted beauty of his trembling face, and I knew what had saddened me. It was not the illness that kept him forever devoid of full stature. It could not be. Nor the thankful look he gave as I pushed his little cart along the roadway. And neither was it the fact that he could never get out of that tiny bed himself; the fact that he would never feel the pain of a fall—never fall from the pain of a lost love. No, it was not any of these. What saddened me most of all was that swath of hair he so valiantly bore against the abyss that is Death. The way that it grew unceasingly, closer…always getting closer to the ground: always making the burden of his head heavier. He never would cut his hair. And I never knew why.

As I lie in my bed, a note falls from my bare hands to the naked floor below. I stare up in astonishment as my head lies helplessly on my pillow: alone and immobile. I lie paralyzed, looking through the eyes of a dream. Above me I see a man with shears. A scream of anguish erupts through the air. It is my own. I feel the thin cords of my hair silently fall to the floor: un-mourned. I cry out in pain, and feel the very essence of my life rush out of me. And I am rejuvenated. As I lie on my deathbed, war-torn and pitiful, I look up at the face which smiles upon me. I smile back. My only true friend looks down. His deep, unbreakable honesty radiates into my soul. Finally I can admit the truth.