I was talking to Chris when he reached into a pocket and pulled out some old scissors. He slid the blades into his mohawk and snapped them shut. Pieces of green-and-red dyed hair fell to the ground. “There’s something about street fighting, always proving yourself,” he said. “You constantly see how you measure up. ” More hair fell to the ground. “Why are you doing that?” I asked. “I’m going to Luke’s salon later.” I nodded. Luke was a friend, putting things together after cheating the wrong cocaine dealer. “I like to make it a challenge,” he added. I nodded again. His eyes settled on the middle distance, and I could tell how much he missed feeling alive.