The last guy to cut my hair is dead. He died in his sleep, a peaceful death no doubt, floating away on a narcotic high, no regrets, no fear, just oblivion. Kind of like how he lived; on an opiate high, no regrets, no fear, and simply oblivious that at thirty-two there’s a lot more to life than E on the weekends, Mollies every now and then, Oxys when they were available, and heroin when they were not.
He used to tell me that he was in recovery because he quit drinking. The drugs were just a passtime, he would say, laughing when I told him he was still an addict. He was larger than life, full of street wisom and wit, took pride in the fact that he could get anything you, or he wanted.
If only he wanted to live.
I used to think like him, and believed that drugs and alcohol would set me free, and help me to enjoy life to the fullest, and take my mind and body places that I could never imagine. It was only when I left all of that behind that I began to live, and feel, and experience life in its natural state, with all of the joy, triumph, pain, misery and satisfaction that comes with it.
Turns out the drugs and alcohol were keeping me prisoner, trapped in a cycle of highs and lows; a giant roadblock keeping me from experiencing life to the fullest. If only Mike had figured that out, I wouldn’t be looking for a new barber, a little girl wouldn’t be without her dad, and a lot of people wouldn’t be without their friend.