The moment I realised I was depressed was when I twigged it had been over two weeks since anybody had seen my hair.

Sometime in Autumn, I realised that, instead of spending 15-30 mins lathering expensive, faintly peach-smelling products in my hair, I could just throw a beanie on in the morning and stay in bed a bit longer.

Once I had this epiphany, I just stopped. The most people ever saw of my hair was the strands that would poke out the back and flop out of the front like unruly vines escaping a secret garden. So, for literally months on end, that was pretty much all people ever saw.

I wouldn’t even shed my shell when I got home most days. I have a cat now, and I am forced to believe that whenever he does see me without a hat, he must assume that there’s a particularly unthreatening and pudgy home-invader there to steal him away into the night.

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Historically, I’ve tried to take pride in my appearance and, by extension, my hair. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a ginge, I’ve not always been best pals with my hair. For a long time growing up, I adhered to whatever strange notions pop culture had about redheads. I’d find myself embarrassed and, as a result, would put absolutely no effort into how it (and I) looked.

Fortunately, I eventually kicked those feelings to the curb. I started to see ginger as what it was: a shade, a colour. I mean, if you ask somebody for a highlighter and they gave you an orange one, if they had an issue they’d be the weird one, right? Millions of people eat the cheese Doritos without any issue! So, over the years I started to try to take pride in it — my hair was unique. I have the rarest hair and eye combination in the world, apparently, so why wouldn’t I try to own it?

I started to grow it out and made sure I always got it cut by the best barbers I could both find. I spent excessive amounts to find products to help me tame it, crimp it, style it.

I don’t actually get my hair cut now, come to think of it — not unless I have something coming up that might require me to have my entire forehead and the accompanying hair on-show. I’ve been earmarking an August trim’ since about March, to coincide with a wedding. I can’t help but feel like the bride and groom won’t be particularly impressed if I show up in a Carhart beanie with white cat hairs hidden amongst the expanse of black. My argument of ‘but it cost like twenty quid, which if we’re being honest, feels like quite a lot for a small hat’ probably wouldn’t cut it on that day.

So here I am, it’s May now, and that Summer feeling is starting to creep in. Every day I rock up to the office wearing a beanie usually reserved for the rain and sleet of winter, brings me one day closer to the inevitable ‘what are you actually still doing wearing a beanie in the Summer, you freak. It’s 90 degrees out, the sun’s collapsing, go home and comfort your loved ones, you big sweaty idiot’.

I’m kind of resenting Summer nowadays. It’s a time where people withdraw from their Winter attitudes, fresh with beach bods and a new mindset ready for the four and a half days of sun we’re blessed with and accept with gratitude each year. I just spent the winter gaining more pounds than I would like and overthinking.

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To be honest, for a peak behind the curtain, avoiding any obvious crass jokes, I never know how to finish these ramblings in anything like a satisfying manner. I always struggle to write a conclusion that can leave people wanting more. So I’ll just try to be as honest as possible.

I’m 27, spinning aimlessly in circles like Antony on the wing. Been ‘house-sitting’ for nine-odd-months, waiting for the next step, the next big thing for me and mine. All the while, I can feel my family’s resentment simmering under the surface. I shy away from my own reflection, growing to dislike what looks back out. I’m doubting my purpose; I’m creatively impotent, full of grand ideas, but always lacking the energy or ability to follow through. What even is there for a lame horse to do if it can’t run, it can’t sing, it can’t make it’s mark?

Every time I plonk myself down in front of the screen at my desk on a Monday morn’, I find myself torn, in something of a rut. I’m stuck between feelings of wanting to show appreciation for the opportunities afforded to me, needing to stay put during turbulent times, and a yearning to spread my wings — to maybe rekindle some semblance of spark. I’ve become withdrawn. I’m blue, racked with feelings of sadness, anger, resentment, jealousy, anxiety, fear, and tiredness. I miss people, mourn times and experiences now past, while drifting away from memories old and new.

Maybe I should try therapy, I often think, but I usually just baulk at the price, falling at the first hurdle. Why does having a healthy brain come with such a sacrifice? Other times I crave the attention and reinforcement that socialising can bring. I think maybe just catching up with people I’ve not seen in a while might help me feel more myself. While other times, I dread it. I can’t bear the thought of falling into a self-set trap of putting every ounce of myself into every situation, plan, person, all just to be met with disappointment and abject apathy.

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I build walls like my name’s Bob. I’ve been hiding, not just under a beanie, but underneath a barricade of my own making. The burden of expectations, the battles with self-doubt, and the fear of forging forwards have kept me a slob caught in a constant, costly cycle. I need to start taking my own advice. What’s the true cost of staying stuck, staying stagnant? As summer steadily approaches, perhaps it’s time to shed this shell, confront my discomfort, and take tentative tiptoe steps towards reclaiming some spark. After all, a 100% acrylic, hand-wash-only beanie can only conceal so much for so long, right?