I brought all of my bags into the room and spread the contents on the bed. I opened the food and ate a piece of oily grilled bread while I decided what to do first. By the time I finished the bread, I was stripped and ready to plug the clippers in. I stood over the sink in the cramped bathroom with the clippers set to the second-lowest setting. Each pass over my head sent hair into the sink in greasy clumps. The dead hair smelled of the boats and fish. The odour was deep in the hair and would never have washed out; it was as much a part of the hair as the colour. It took ten minutes to cut my hair. Once I was sure I had gotten every spot, I set the clippers down a notch and began trimming my beard. The dark coarse hairs fell like dandelion spores into the sink. I trimmed everything down and began shaving the shortened facial hair into a presentable beard. It wouldn't stand out in the city anymore, but it would obscure a face some people might remember.
