Well, my blue hair first came out. It seems silly, but I do not know, it seemed to me that something useful could come out of this symbolic burden, for example, he reminded me that, after 23 years of accepting my body – not always loving it – I will also have to learn to accept all the physical changes that are coming from now on. Well, but that's basic. I believe that this hair has above all two deep roots that will pierce my mind: on the one hand it may be anxiety – because I have not yet reached the intellectual maturity of physical maturity – but on the other it may be tranquillity – because at first they will not question my intellectual maturity thanks to that hair.

In fact, many of us in our generation are affected by the theory I have called “natural contempt,” licensed in blue hair. It's a typical evil of those of us who spend a lot of time contemplating the sphere of wise people who smell of natural selection, and it leads to a continual disparagement of our opinions, our discourse and our creative ability, almost naturally. We read pulpotomy articles, in-depth interviews, sublime bertsos, we do documentation to understand important issues, but the moment you have to express your opinion, whether it's in the plaza, in the bar or on Twitter, we don't feel the legitimacy to get into big waters. We introduce a lot of poetry and dodge the themes, limiting ourselves to listening to others. But now I have a blue hair for better and for worse.
And that's why I dare ask you questions. How does that question of becoming an adult and respectable person work? You really don't. How do you always make it so serious, so hypercritical and sometimes so – forgive me – so terribly resinous? How many Durango Fairs do you need, how many followers, how many novels, how many statements against the novel, how many cultural projects you have to guide, coffee and cookies, the Amorante concert? How many kidney stones, how many children, how many gray hair or fallen hair do you have the thought of not fearing anyone’s opinion? I have lost many fellow generals along the way, who have begun to imitate you, wise men, and have pulled them from everywhere to use words that are too fat. So, there must be an age, a computable number of something. Or maybe the key is to hide the doubts you can have about the maturity of your opinion.

This is only a warning from your supervisors that we would not dare to write a Manuel Bartual style story. Although “natural contempt” asks me to delete everything written quickly, only with the only guarantee of blue hair, I mean that the last harvest of the 20th century also knows something, thank you very much, but not what it is. We are also ageing and soon everything will remain the same. Be afraid.