Cumulus clouds of tobacco smoke fight the still air and jostle each other for a place at the bar. I shake my head at the offering of a hand-rolled cigarette and return my attention to my drink. As I watch, the sickly amber liquid melts away the ice cubes and the promises I made to myself. It gets in the cracks, the weak spots, and splits them wide. Wait but a moment and the angry shards, the last of the resistance, will vanish too. Peace and acceptance pool warmly in my stomach and will remain as long as I dare not look too closely again.

* * *

Keratin, curiousity, and laziness have conspired together to leave me with a bit of hair on my head. Only a bit, but much longer than it has been for several years. My not-quite-flowing locks have revealed another curiousity: grey hair. Only one at first, on my left temple. I entertained a brief hope that I could develop a Reed Richards-style do but that was dashed as I discovered a couple more on the top of my head. I'm not surprised; my mother went grey very early and my scalp has been exposed to the DNA-rending teeth of the sun for many years. I'm still curious so I'll let it grow for now. But I'll be damned before I pay anyone for a haircut.

I don't think I even remember how to comb my hair. Maybe I never knew.

Livescience tells of an article about job satisfaction. Hanging about the top of the list: authors. Seventy-four percent surveyed said they are very satisfied with their job. It's possible, but I rather think many of them were lying. Or not being completely honest. Certainly it is very satisfying to complete a work, but I imagine it's much like sex: All's well that ends well but everything before that point can be a nerve-wracking, surprisingly isolating, messy business during which it's very difficult to judge precisely how much eye-contact is appropriate.

But it must be worth all the trouble if so many people go through it, right?