An undercut like the porticoes of Bologna

I cut my own hair.

Took the 00000 line higher up the sides yesterday morning, to about an inch below “high and tight.” It was Easter. I wanted renewal and rebirth. And I had accepted that holding on to the mass of my hair “so Eric [the barber] can make sense of it later” didn’t make as much sense if, as it seems likely, I won’t see Eric for still a few months, or longer. I had always been curious with Eric to do a strongly delineated undercut, with the sides and back taken up super short, and then a shock of long hair on top that I could brush or slick back. But, to my mild disappointment, he never suggested this himself—neither the going up super high with the razor, nor the hard line, nor even letting it grow in longer on top (“Just a trim, OK?” he would say every time when he got to the top, and took off his standard centimeter).

It’s definitely an undercut: on either side there’s an overhang, like the portici of Bologna, under which one can walk sheltered from sun, rain, and snow.

Easter feels like Good Friday.

I watched the Papal Easter Mass. I was moved, and even teared up at one point: there were eight male singers doing gorgeous Latin (Gregorian?) chants, and the Mass was a choreographed series of movements: bringing the Gospels up to be read, taking the Gospels away again, the Gospel sung first in Latin, then a second time in what I believe was Koine Greek. And the Pope sitting there, or walking here or there with his slight limp, or praying in silence. And I could see on his face all the pain of the world, that none of us could be there that day in the church, on what it is Christianity’s greatest celebration. He was carrying our suffering for us, like it was Good Friday.