Radio Nostalgia EP 06

Today on Radio Nostalgia: "It Could Be Nice" by Chet Faker.

These are not my hair - or rather, they are! But they’ve always been different in the 23 years of my life.

Tonight, I dreamed of lightening them - I did it by myself but burned them all.

Forgot to ask my mom what that means.

It’s been a while, and I've been looking in the mirror for something I think I've lost in the fragments of the many paths I've taken - never completed any of them, and sometimes I just cry about it.

Other times, though, I meet someone who tells me that I was right, that I did well to decide to be volatile, "you were far-sighted" - oh, my thousand lives.

I still tremble - it’s in the trembling when I hear the sound of your voice, if my name doesn't come out of your lips, if you talk to me about your endless desire to escape, but you never read me! You never read me.

I blame it on my hair.

If I had the money, I would dye my hair platinum blonde at a hairdresser's, so I wouldn't burn them - just like the nights when I toss and turn between wakefulness and sleep and confuse reality. I’d go blonde to remind you of when we wanted to go out and made a thousand plans, losing ourselves between the sky of a new city and the sheets of a hundred different beds.

Sometimes, I would also lighten the hair right next to my eyes, to highlight them.

Maybe you would recover the sparkle that sometimes escapes from you - the one that's there every time I look at you. A testament to my love, which has never faded - it has evolved.

I feel good in your arms, my lovely couch, with you - I don't need brushes.

If I had the money... I would dye myself that kind of blonde that reminds you of an unparalleled lightness, the one you were looking for but gradually lost.

Maybe you were in love with my 23 years old. Where did I fail you? When did I -

If I had the nerve, instead, I would shave my head, to recover that audacity and self-esteem that someone took away from me - someone has my first and last name.

Maybe I would look at myself in the mirror differently - I would listen to and not vomit the uncertainties of a whole life spent between paradise and abyss onto myself.

If you want, you can leave! Just take my suitcase filled with hatred and sugar-coated tales with you - throw it away. Maybe we would work, maybe I would - I wish I could.

Tell her it's okay if she wants to wear my clothes - they'll wear out on her too...

Beautifully became aware of yourself, but making you aware drained everything out of my soul.

With a shaved head, maybe I'd stroll down the street, drawing compassion because people would wonder why I have short hair - maybe I would feel worse... or maybe better?

Sometimes, compassion weighs less than judgment - it’s always your own or someone else's side-eye.

If I had a clear mind, I would dye my hair red, to meet a new person and untangle the copper wires weaving through my thoughts. Maybe you would look at me with different eyes, with renewed interest, with the promise of loving me again if I started to give you back soul and breaths of fresh air. But I don’t know about that.

It’s a dream, rather than a possibility.

If I decided to leave, I would dye my hair black, and let it grow - resemble her.

A vain attempt to recapture the youth you’re chasing, the freshness you crave.

I would dye them with the darkest color, a manifestation of mourning for what was and will never be again, which probably isn't much different from now - for you.

You think you lost something? Emptied your guts. What do you think you left behind?

I know, right. I promised you a lifetime stability, wrapped in new emotions - and I'm trying but it's never enough for you - you're always hungry for adrenaline, the thought of a new sensation sends you into ecstasy.

Months have passed, but I still find myself wondering what was beyond me, what was given to you, what did I miss? What did I take away from you, why did you look for a connection outside of me? Is it the fault of the hair, is it the fault of my fucking hair?

Guess I'll stick to my bland ash blonde.

Maybe I'll smile, maybe I'll hang me out to dry, maybe I'll feel better - you will learn to accept my curls that get dirty every three days.

Because I don't want to resemble her, nor find myself somewhere else.

Sitting down, comfortably - I let myself go, and I find myself in the corners.

Grace me, or let me go. In any case, it’ll be a victory for us.

Brewster Mccloud (1970)