Short back and sides

"Just a trim" I said. The hairdresser looked at me sceptically and raised his brow.
"How long since you got it cut?" Cringe.
"Four months, five at the most."
"I think we need to take a bit more off. Trust me. You'll look great."
I watched the curls fall to the floor, like superfluous commas edited.

Later, walking to work down a wide boulevard in South Kensington, I caught a glimmer of Spring to come. The rain had set off the scent of trimmed lavender hedges and the warming air wafted it across my path. Musing on the seasonal awakening of nature in the city, I was caught unawares by the whining roar of a chain saw, a creak and crash of branches.

The London Plane trees lined the road, their feathery twigs like dark capillary veins against the grey Winter sky. Trunks standing ancient against the white stucco buildings, like medieval candlesticks with layers and layers of dripping wax. The quirky pom-pom seeds had endeared them to me as I idly stared out during long hours of dull meetings.

A man was up there, a demented rodeo rider astride one of the furthest branches, waving a chainsaw with one arm. Half of the tree was shorn of its frizzy locks and the rest of the branches were crashing down, twigs and sawdust lining the pavement at the base of the trunk. I touched my own hair self-consciously as I passed.

On the way home, one side of the boulevard still gloried in last season's growth, while the other, framed against the purpling sky, presented waxy candlesticks topped with chicken bones, knobbly at the ends. The pruned trees looked dazed and vulnerable, coming to terms with their new silhouettes.