A certain kind of nothing.

I cut my hair close and dyed it red the other day. There's a soft spot at the back of my neck from moments of forced intimacy with the lip of a hairdresser's sink. I catch my reflection and don't recognize myself. I kind of like it.

Somehow "a soft strawberry blonde" transmuted in the salon into a bright auburn that clashes with everything I wear. It's making the Mia Farrow crop less romantic and more tough. I don't feel tough, though. Tonight I'm feeling spineless and quavering - tired, longing, and worn through.

Earlier this evening, at a gallery launch, I noticed a kind-looking man. I caught his eye a few times, fleetingly, and he smiled at someone behind me. Standing next to him at the makeshift bar, I wanted to break the ice - crack a joke, say something brilliant about the paintings. Minutes before, his friend had spilled red wine on the floor, flecking the soft sculpture installation with crimson drops. It looked like the sculptures were bleeding. When I turned to face him he had already gone, back into the safe haven of conversation, and I was left kicking myself for being so fucking lame. He wore spectacles, too. I've always had a soft spot for spectacles.

Now I'm clutching my hot water bottle and typing in bed, the night chill doing nothing to assuage my longing for someone in bed with me. A late night text from my ex, completely innocuous, heightened the feeling, and I'm wondering what it will take for me to catch someone's eye and keep it - to make a joke off the cuff, to not worry that the girl he is talking to with is his girlfriend, or that she's almost always prettier, or funnier, or smarter than me. Not a haircut. Not a too-bright dye job.

Tonight I'm feeling tired, and stretched too thin. It's particular to late nights, I guess, too much wine, and the dull, plodding fatigue that comes from being starved of physical touch. A certain kind of nothing. I'd better stop being melodramatic and turn the computer off, turn the lights off, turn my mind off. And dream of the mythical tomorrow, when, redhead or not, I wake up relatively unlame.