"The first divorce is the only tough one. After that it’s merely a problem in economics."
3.30 am in Hackney. On the way to a party, we are a little lost and we stop to find out who we are.
Yancey: GQ, why do you have a GQ?
Jessy: I don’t know. Why does he have a pineapple?
We play the old game of Confession, by which journalists earn their bread and subjects indulge their masochism. For, of course, at bottom, no subject is naive. Every hoodwinked widow, every deceived lover, every betrayed friend, every subject of writing knows on some level what is in store for him, and remains in the relationship anyway, impelled by something stronger than his reason.
Janet Malcolm, ‘The Journalist and the Murderer’
The Ikea effect is a cognitive bias where labor enhances affection for its results. The name for this psychological phenomenon is in honor of the wildly successful Swedish manufacturer named Ikea, whose products typically arrive with some assembly required. A large portion of products produced by Ikea are self-assembled, leaving it up to the purchaser to put together their own furniture. The nature of the “Ikea effect” is the result of over admiration of a particular item one puts together on their own.
There is a lot of work. I’m anxious over finishing things up because of the upcoming presentations and meetings. It’s a milestone time in the project.
In the mist of all that, I put on an oversized sweater, a pair of jeans, and some slippers. The ones closest to the door. The first pair that reaches the level of the eye. I do that and I go to get something to eat. I have thought of nothing specific. “Is there anything even still open” I’ll take the first thing near by.
As I’m waiting for the kebab, the “Balcony” is playing in the headphones (by The Rumour Said Fire) and i catch this warm wave of thought, about how lucky i am to have all the amazing people in my life. And how said life is as much full and delightful as it is stressful. .
As I get the kebab and head home, I keep floating in that thought, going from one face to another, having imaginary letter exchanges, and dialogues, and debates, over where it’s best to hang what.
Then i see someone running towards me. Running towards me a little too fast. Tall, well groomed, he must be no more than 18, running directly at me. I look around me on the street. It’s wide but almost no one is near.
My hands are full: one with the kebab, one with the plastic bag, two light cokes in it. Aside from a little pocket change and a ring with three keys on it, that’s all I have with me.
I take the keys out of my jeans pocket- almost mechanically - and point the sharp ends towards the runner. He seems even taller as he approaches me. He gets really close and says really quickly
“WE HAVE THE SAME HAIR!!!”
in a really enthusiastic, cheerful, somewhat inquisitive tone as if anticipating a confirmation. Adding slowly “almost”.
This gives me a pause. For a minute I forget everything. I have absolutely nothing to respond with. No words. Thankfully it doesn’t matter, because even if I had words my mouth would have been too full of kebab I had forgotten to swallow, to utter them. I continue to point the key as he walks away.
Our hair is nothing alike.