the sexy meth addict look

I used to make fun of the way he looked like a meth addict when he put his hair up to cook. To keep it out of his eyes. Once I mistook him for a girl, and I told him.

He cut his hair sometime that fall, still long and blond and stringy on Sundays when he didn't shower. Then, before I left for the holidays, it was long enough again, by sudden small margin, to pull up in a tiny bun. In the back the pieces too short curved into little apostrophes around his neck. It's like when I put on the large and thick rimmed glasses left here after a costume party. Through them I see a glimpse of what it might be to be someone else and when his hair is tight, tied up and taught around his head it turns me on.