My Britney Moment

I burst through the front door, undress, and toss my clothes onto the bed covered in white sheets and pillows. With a fully charged electric razor in hand, I walk into the now brightly lit bathroom and stand in front of the mirror. A small nudge, and the machine buzzes to life. Anticipation often sets you up for disappointment when it comes to evening plans, but tonight, Alex Turner screams in my ear: Tonight there’ll be some love, yeah, there’ll be a ruckus, regardless of what’s gone before. I place the buzzing razor against my head, and it starts slicing through my hair. Dark tufts fall around me. In a few minutes, I’ll be a new person.

I’m in a constant battle between minimalism, depression, and overthinking, with a healthy dose of laziness mixed in. The same pattern always repeats. I mull over the idea of simplifying my life. The more I think about it, the conclusion is always the same: Sure, why not? So I delete it. Sometimes it resurfaces, but I usually just don’t care, and it fades from my mind, my future, my life. If I don’t immediately regret doing it, I know I made the right choice. Like shaving my head, thinking: This action brings me one step closer to my ultimate self. There must be no more options, just my own unique, individual standard. It’s time to free myself from my doubts.

This is my Britney moment. The key difference is that she did it out of desperation, and I’m doing it as a calculated step in my perfectionist master plan. The freeing sensation I get when running an electric razor through my hair, knowing there’s no going back, is somewhere between orgasm and murder. It’s that good the first time. Afterward, it’ll just become another routine I add to my life. Soon, it’ll be completely normal for me. I look at my reflection in the mirror - no racing heart, no regrets. Just pure satisfaction that I don’t have to worry about this part of my life anymore. And who knows? Maybe Britney felt the same way.