murakami, haruki - Norwegian wood

she said. "I had a perm this summer, and it was just awful. I was ready
to kill myself. I looked like a corpse on the beach with seaweed stuck
to my head. So I decided as long as I was ready to die, I might as well
cut it all off. At least it's cool in the summer." She ran her hand
through her pixie cut and gave me a smile.
"It looks good, though," I said, still munching my omelette.
"Let me see your profile."
She turned away and held the pose a few seconds.
"Yeah, I thought so. It really looks good on you. Nicely shaped head.
Pretty ears, too, uncovered like that."
"So I'm not mad after all! I thought I looked good myself once I cut it
all off. Not one guy likes it, though. They all tell me I look like a
concentration camp survivor. What's this thing that guys have for girls
with long hair? Fascists, the whole bunch of them! Why do guys all
think girls with long hair are the classiest, the sweetest, the most
feminine? I mean, I myself know at least 250 unclassy girls with long
hair. Really."
"I think you look better now than you did before," I said. And I meant
it. As far as I could recall, with long hair she had been just another
cute student. A fresh and physical life force surged from the girl who
sat before me now. She was like a small animal that has popped into
the world with the coming of spring. Her eyes moved like an
independent organism with joy, laughter, anger, amazement and
despair. I hadn't seen a face so vivid and expressive in ages, and I
enjoyed watching it live and move.
"Do you mean it?" she asked.
I nodded, still munching on my salad.
She put on her sunglasses and looked at me from behind them.
"You're not lying, are you?"
"I like to think of myself as an honest man," I said. "Far out."
"So tell me: why do you wear such dark glasses?"
"I felt defenceless when my hair got short all of a sudden.
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