Dishonour

I set out on my errands, hardly reached the street before ideas started to flow: something to ponder, something to write about. I swiftly reviewed the range of human belief systems: from burnt offerings on rugged mountain-tops to communal church attendance (booking a place in Heaven) to New Age superstitions, such as “we create our own reality”. Something came in a flash, between two lamp-posts, as the familiar street swivelled before my unregistering eyes and the world went about its business, weaving back and forth: motorised wheels carrying the “well-heeled” in the thoroughfare, leaving the rest of us, modestly-heeled, on the sidewalk.

This was the “universal revelation” that I had in that moment. I saw that we each strut the same stage, perform in front of the same backdrop. In the present case, it was this street, Victorian houses one side, workshops on the other, traffic lights ahead, the sky above. We don’t just have different parts to play. We dwell in hallucinatory realms of our own unconscious devising, made up of compulsive ideas. They’re like tinted lenses, rose-coloured spectacles perhaps. Or you might say that we live in a bubble of filtered perceptions. That was half the flash. The rest came straight after—I still hadn’t reached the second lamp-post. I saw that this bubble is created for our protection. We have to cushion ourselves from death, and all the little daily disappointments. We have to tell ourselves it’s OK. Every gain is threatened with loss. Everything will be swallowed up in the big loss, the final one, the only endgame in town. And since we are all subject to the same imperative, we might as well tolerate one another’s bubbles of
belief, or to put it more bluntly, the lies we can’t help telling ourselves.

And now I find I’ve used the pronouns “we” and “us” in a universal sense, covering all mankind. I do it rarely, for I’ve no right to speak for everyone. The highest I can aspire to is speak honestly for myself. Back to me. I was on an errand to get a haircut, bring back a loaf of bread. The source of anxiety is always “me”. Ego tells me to watch
out for myself, that’s its proper role. I stood at the traffic  lights, waiting for them to change, “Will the barbershop be busy? Who will cut my hair? Should I have waited another week? Is it already too long? Will I have to make conversation, or will there be an awkward silence? What if they cut my hair badly and overcharge me?
Will they expect a tip? Will it be an old man or a young woman?” You’d think it was my first time. Now I was 200 yards away from the barber’s. I’d spent more time worrying about the haircut than the enigmas of life, death and human separateness.

I suddenly recalled being five, running out of a barbershop screaming. It was my first visit to London and I did not trust Londoners. I was still a cheeky little Australian. Perhaps the barber said “Sit here, boy” in a gruff voice. Perhaps I was scared of the razor-wielding I witnessed. I cared not what anyone thought. I was prepared to ruin everyone’s day with my screams and tears. They gave up trying to get me to go back in.

Yesterday’s haircut was all right, of course. The young woman was so quiet, I tried to start a conversation, but she didn’t understand. Turns out she’s Polish, hasn’t been here
long. She offered me a pensioner’s discount but I got out of there feeling not too damaged, just self-conscious of with my new short hair, feeling older than when I went in.

I remembered to buy the bread. After some indecision, I went to a small grocery where there’s little choice and everything costs more, called Costcutter. When I got inside it seemed a bad idea, but I was the only customer and felt sorry for the shop assistant. So I bought a sliced loaf in its own garish wrapping, refusing the offer of a further bag for vague ecological reasons. So I had to walk out displaying my purchase for all to see. For some reason, people don’t do that round here. It felt a little awkward, I didn’t know why. Where’s the shame in dangling an undisguised loaf of bread, when your head is newly shorn? I felt I had to put on a defiant air. If a sword had been trailing at my side, I’d have grasped its hilt with my free hand, to make sure no one gave me the wrong kind of look. In days gone by, the wrong kind of look can lead to a challenge, and maybe a duel. In certain pubs it still does.

Whence this instinctive notion of “Death before Dishonour”?