I like my hair short. Very short. This habit has been with me ever since my freshman year. The last few decades my hair has gotten shorter and shorter, too. Đurđa Ivašić, who cuts my hair in Motovun, knows this very well. A couple of weeks ago, just after my return from a fortnight in Zagreb, I told her that I was dying for a haircut, and we quickly agreed on the day and the hour. But a day earlier I returned to her and told her that I would wait until my beloved leaves the town after the holidays, for she loves my hair much longer than I do. This was my own decision, though. My beloved is leaving tomorrow, and a day later I will go to Đurđa at last. And now I cannot but feel ever-so-slightly guilty about the joy with which I am awaiting my long-awaited haircut.