Clumps of hair gathered on the laminate floor around the reclining barber chair. Long tresses, I had spent eight months cultivating and allowing to grow. Pieces of me severed by clippers and scissors, being swept away by the barber's brush. It was too late to start getting wistful. Besides, part of me welcomed the swelling sweep of change.

Change is good. Change is exciting. Chant the mantra enough, and you might believe it.

The results staring back at me from the mirror were decidedly unimpressive. Average, verging on bland. Nothing a decent dollop of gel couldn't fix.

And it did.

My new haircut garnered the attention I had hoped for. The women at work cooed and dished out compliments I was unused to receiving from the opposite sex. By the time I had reached the aisle, my cheeks flush, and my head had expanded exponentially in size.

Short hair took getting used to. Often, my hand would wander to my brow to flick away a phantom fringe.

The new do even provoked a lunch-break debate. The overwhelming consensus was I looked smart, a spruced-up version of one of the lads. Nicky was the lone dissenting voice. She thought my previous style fit my personality.

I started hanging out with Keith a lot more. After work we'd end up back at his house, smoking a spliff, slumped in our seats watching Steven Seagal beat seven shades of shit out of bad guys. The corny wise-cracks worked when you're stoned. And you could talk through the movie without worrying about missing relevant plot details. A throwback to the type of action movies I loved in my younger years—before my life became a Tennessee Williams drama.

For the first time in aeons, I felt free from the pressure of being.

Keith's pals would often drop by with beers and more dope. Sometimes there would be twelve of us crammed into the tiny sitting-room. People sat on arm-rests or the floor. Mostly they talked about white-label releases and the coolest club DJs. I knew nothing about any of this, so I stayed quiet. They told jokes I didn't find funny, but laughter is infectious, and I'd laugh along with them. And try as I might, I could not get into dance music. Songs without meaningful lyrics are the equivalent of a football stadium minus fans; structurally impressive but lacking soul.

Most of the lads had nicknames. Usually, this meant an o, y, or er amended to their surname or Christian name. We had a Macker, Johnno, Philly, Davey, Dunner and a Jayo. Others were more inventive; Budgie, Skinny, Jambo, Moff, Bosco, Clinker, and Yogi. I kind of hoped the guys would coin an affectionate nickname for me. All my life, people called me Aaron or Murphy. I didn't count that time in junior school when I got branded Fashion by the older students—that wasn't a term of endearment. It was a straight-up insult.

Yogi referred to me as the quiet man. It didn't take with the others.

May arrived, and we entered the last month of the term. As fifth-years have no exams of major import, skipping classes was less of a big deal. If you showed your face during the day, the teachers would cut you some slack. Keith and I took advantage of this laxity to spend our early mornings dossing in an arcade, shooting pool, and disappearing round to a nearby alley to blaze a joint.

The Hide-out emporium was as shady as its name sounded. Although only supposed to allow adults on its premises, the bored, balding manager turned a blind eye. All he required was we remove our school jumpers and ties upon entry and stash them in our bags. That, he maintained, offered him plausible deniability should the police visit him.

"You gonna tell them you thought we were midget Jehovah's Witnesses whose clothes ran in the wash?" I said, slinging my bulging knapsack over my shoulder and glancing down at my grey shirt and slacks.

"Keep it up smart-arse, and you'll be going door to door, looking for your heart and soul after I kick it out of you."

I kept any more smart-arsery to myself after that. I also decided not to let on to Keith how much I hated pool. I didn't have to hide the fact that I couldn't play worth a damn. That became immediately apparent. Besides, it was a small sacrifice to make to get to hang out with scar-faced pool-sharks and greasy-haired hustlers with blurry blue tattoos covering their forearms.

Often, I would attempt to broaden what modicum of Dublin accent I had if I got chatting to some of these characters, and dropping the sham, when I'd look over and catch Keith's stealthy grin.

Ironically, our frequent absenteeism earned us a nickname. Starsky and Hutch. Courtesy of our history teacher. Whenever I would show up, and Keith was on the missing list, he would say, "Ah, Starsky, you decided to grace us with your presence today. Hutch clearly has more pressing concerns than educating himself about how perilously close the world came to wearing jackboots and singing Deutschland Uber Alles before breakfast."

He loaned me his copy of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich to read over the summer. Previous A-grade essays had earned me a pass for my current rebellious phase. Although, I felt more than a little ashamed accepting his kind gesture.

Once school was officially out, I hung with Keith and the lads. Listened to stale jokes, and recycled stories of who beat up who. Boredom set in. Hash helped offset the monotony to a degree, distorting perception and time, drifting down a pleasant stream of meandering days.

I told myself I was integrating, determined to be Pavlov's good little doggie. The quick learner. Who realised toeing the line was how you got the treat.

With their exams completed, Nicky and Louise were fixtures at Keith's smoky abode. Nicky sat between Keith and me, while Louise got hit on more times than the buttons of a shoot-'em-up arcade game. You could see the constant attention was getting to her, and her smiles tightened, and her polite replies got briefer. Her soft almond eyes would dart desperately in Nicky's direction, searching for an escape route.

Guys rediscover their animal tendencies around a pretty girl. The level of competition becomes fierce. The herd mentality is shattered, in favour of victor taking the spoils. They become louder, show off. Best friends put each other down with vicious barbs. Exaggerated stories of their masculine prowess replacing chest-beating.

"Shoulda seen me last night. Tackles flying in all over the shop. Almost took a fellas leg clean off."

"What? Their number seven—scrawny wee shit, not up to me ankles."

"Listen to this, would yeh. Our left-back. Left back in the bleedin' dressing-room."

"I've seen you in the dressing-room. Little chandler on you. I've put bigger bait on the end of me line."

"Stop talking bollocks, I've got a lad on me like a unicorn's horn."

"Unicorn, that's about right. A creature of fantasy."

"Says the prick who plays Dungeon an' Dragons."

"Me nan bought me that for Crimbo. I never played—"

"Cause you oul' pair couldn't afford a Gameboy."

"Keep it up, I'll dig the head of yeh."

"Do ya want yer go?"

Heads butted.

I watched the display with mild curiosity. Noted how the good-looking guys just sat there, grinning or acting disinterested. Confident their magnetism attracted any partner they so desired. Saw the smaller, shyer types observe the proceedings like bench-warmers watching the game unfold, resigned to the fact we would play no part.

"I gotta be getting back," Louise announced, hands holding her skirt in place as she carefully uncrossed her legs and stood up. "Nicky?" Her eyes widened, and her eyebrows raised a fraction.

Girl code. Covert, complex, and impenetrable to the attentive male audience. Women possess mastery in nuances and subtleties, traits that remain an enigma to the masculine mind.

"I'm staying," Nicky said, voice rising an octave. "Aaron's going that way, aren't you babe?" I glanced around, confused. "I am?" Her steely gaze said: 'Hop to it, and don't mess this up.'

I looked at Louise for approval. It arrived via a shy smile. "I am." A statement.

I could sense every eye on me. The lads were stunned. I dreamed up scenarios like this when I was younger. I never expected it to translate into reality.

For a few fleeting, fabulous seconds, I felt like a star.

The moment we were alone, walking down the garden path together, the familiar queasy anxiety in my stomach started up.

"Cheers," Louise said, "I had to split. Those guys, they're alright, but they're a bit much, y'know." Relief surged through me. I was her parachute. Nothing more.

We chatted about work. It was nice. No pressure.

Louise suggested we sit down on the green and chill. She began talking about her exams and how happy she was that they were all finished, brushing her dark locks behind her ear. It reminded me of when I wore my hair long.

The conversation drifted into music. Louise listened as I chattered excitedly about my idols. After five minutes of speed talking, it registered; She hadn't said a word. She smiled a lot, but she had never heard of Suede, knew Bowie as the fella her dad liked. So, I shut up.

Silence bloomed.

Louise looked at me, waiting patiently for me to regain my voice. Frantically, I searched my mind for something interesting to say.

She picked petals off a daisy and rolled them between her fingers.

I looked skyward for inspiration. The dull grey clouds were a mirror of the blank slate that constituted my mind at the present moment. Bereft of options and with an urgent need to plug the hole, I resorted to the worst banality. I remarked on the weather.

Louise glanced at her watch and said she was going home for dinner, and she'd see me later.

That evening, Nicky confronted me and demanded to know what the hell I was playing at. "Her arse went numb, waiting for you to make a move. How many hints does it take? Do you even like her?"

"Course I do." It's what all guys dream about, a beautiful girlfriend. "She's lovely." She was too. "What should I do?"

"Seriously, Aaron?"

"I could ask her to the pictures?"

"There's a thought." Nicky winked and nudged me with her shoulder, "I knew you'd get there, eventually."

I spent the next hour deliberating on how best to phrase the question, damp patches forming under the arms of my shirt. I cocked up four orders. The supervisor came to my aisle to offer some friendly motivation that doubled as a rebuke.

Louise said, "yes," before I had completed the sentence. Obviously, she and Nicky had pre-arranged everything. The initial hurdle was circumvented. I had a date.

"So, what do you want to see?"

"I'm easy. Whatever you want is good with me."

"The guy usually decides." Jesus, so many rules. The complex regulations of the dating game were Greek to me.

There was one movie I planned on seeing. "Don Juan de Marco?"

"Eh?"

"The Lord Byron poem?" Louise looked less than impressed. "Johnny Depp's in it. And Marlon Brand—"

"Oh, Johnny Depp—he's gorgeous."

"Yeah." Automatic, without thinking. Shit! Old habits they die hard.

"What?"

"I mean, y'know, all the girls love Johnny."

Louise, dressed to the nines, drew some admiring glances as we walked through the foyer holding hands. I caught a few disbelieving double-takes from other guys. Not that I cared. I was Ferris Bueller, living the teenage dream. The one Hollywood and countless TV shows like Saved By The Bell sold to me as a youngster.

The film had a quirky storyline that sucked me in. Johnny played a guy who believes he is Don Juan, the world's greatest lover. Turns out he is just a regular kid from Queens. A dreamer who inhabits a fantasy world to escape the reality of his existence.

No matter who he shared the scene with, I found my eyes gravitating toward Depp. His face, delicate and angular, almost androgynous. His eyes, thoughtful and expressive, capable of conveying emotion without words, emblazoned up there on a fifty-foot screen. My idol.

I sat up straight in the seat. I was on a date with a beautiful girl. Not the optimal time to be obsessing over the Deppster and his undeniable beauty.

On the drive home, Louise concentrated on the cars in front of her. I concentrated on containing my anxiety. The thought of our kissing played on my mind, buckling from the sheer weight of expectation. What if I did not measure up?

Robbie never complained

Robbie. Bloody hell, why did my idiot brain have to go there? Nicky had it spot on; there was something inherently wrong with me. Some psychological defect.

I simultaneously wished the journey was over and that we'd drive for hours. Put me out of my misery, or grant me a stay of execution.

Pretty soon, the grey identikit houses on our estate hove into view. Louise switched the motor off and shifted in her seat to face me. She thanked me for a wonderful night. We made small talk. All the time we talked, the atmosphere steadily built. Her gaze never wavered. Not once.

It was now or never. "Can I kiss you?"

She started laughing. Not a response I figured on. She covered her mouth with her hand. "You don't have to ask, yeh dope yeh."

We inched closer together, beads of sweat hurtling down my sides underneath my brother's powder-blue shirt that I'd borrowed.

Our lips locked.

"No guys ever kissed me like that."

My brain went straight to its default setting, Panic mode. Must have done something wrong. I knew it. Real guys know how to kiss.

"So soft," she said, biting on her lower lip, "I wasn't expecting that...at all..." Her hand reached out and slipped around my head, pulling me in.

My brother sat up in the bed when I entered the room. He displayed that look of pride he wore whenever United had played well. Or when he'd cheered me from the touchlines during my junior soccer playing days. "So, baby bro, I heard somebody snagged themselves a date with luscious Louise. Details. Now."

"We kissed." Eyes smiling, he waited me out. "It was nice."

"You sly dog. Keeping something like that secret from me. You knew I'd find out—you can't keep anything hidden from me." Before launching into a barrage of questions, interviewer-style. Johnny had taken a course in journalism before he quit.

When he had gleaned all he could from me, I posed a question to him. "You ever regret leaving college?"

He studied the print on the beer can.

Without looking at me, he said, "You think you're making the wise move, sell weed, make loads of wonga. Acting like a hard man, earning respect. But it wasn't real. I was just playing at being a tough guy.

"The fella I worked with had me pegged from the get-go. Let me build up the business, then cut me out when he didn't need me anymore. Way the game goes. I should have stuck to journalism, built a career for myself. Instead of trying to be something, I wasn't. And look where—ah, fuck it." He took a large swig. "C'mon, let's see watch telly, eh?"

We watched a re-run of Fawlty Towers. John Cleese making us laugh so hard, I swear we both had abs from doubling over so much. And it helped in keeping thoughts of the past at bay.

The next afternoon at Keith's house, I found myself flung under the spotlight, again. Much like readers of a gossip column, all the lads were eager to discover the juicy details. My coy answers only created more intrigue. Imaginations ran wild in various directions. I was content to allow them to believe nothing had happened, but I put the kibosh on any idea that we had gone the distance.

I had to tell them Louise and I had kissed. Nobody was impressed with the truth.

Walking around the neighbourhood with Louise by my side proved a novel experience. People stopped to talk to us. They got to know my name. Even the older guys quit calling me Johnboy's brother and used my proper name. Or, 'you jammy bastard.'

I lapped up the attention. Okay, so the conversations with my newfound friends were not exactly meaningful. The weightiest topics centred on who had the nicest knockers, Xena warrior princess or the babe from Wayne's World. Still, after several years in the wilderness, a one-horse town holds a similar attraction to a metropolis.

I was like that new breed of celebrity, famous for being famous. My only claim to fame, being the gorgeous girl squeezing my hand and laughing at my lame jokes.

But what did I care? I was bouncing through life, sheathed in a bubble. On a manic high, that showed no signs of stopping. Nor did I wish it to. Like that old '60s song, my life was sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows. For now, I enjoyed the dubious euphoria, unwilling to question its validity.