Don’t make everyone know about your sadness.

“You’re always haunted by the idea you’re wasting your life.”

…I shaved my head I was 12 years old. My parents were out for their wedding anniversary. A Sonic Youth video came on TV and I was mesmerised. I had long hair at the time, bleached by the Florida sun. I cut through it with scissors first — I knew I would be murdered for it, but once I started, I couldn’t stop. I turned the razor on and ran it over my head until there was nothing left. Not a single girl in my city had a shaved head. I felt ecstatic. When my parents came home, I pretended to cry and told them I had tried to give myself a haircut, but had messed it up so badly I could do nothing but shave it off. My dad was deeply sympathetic. I think my mother knew I was lying, but she kept quiet. THE LAST TIME … …I saw a lot of my own blood I was walking to a radio station in Sydney for an interview, wearing my “death wish” gold Dior Homme boots. They have no grip. Trying to walk up the slightest incline is futile. I slipped and fell, and the glass bottle of water I was holding went through my hand. My gold boots went red. I was dragged into a bar, but with the stench of booze, the heat and the blood, I collapsed. Meanwhile, our press person was calling hospitals, but none had any space. So I just walked to the radio station and did the interview live. A nurse from an emergency ward heard me talking about it and called the station, agreeing to see me. He removed most of the glass and gave me painkillers. Two hours later, I did a gig.