return of the hair

It’s a rare day when a man is standing about saying something like “I appear to have more hair than last year”, rare indeedy. I’ve decided to let the rug grow for a few months so I can see whether or not I can pull a 42-year old Matt Dillon. If one includes the flattop of the early 90s then it appears to be near 20 years since my Flock of Seagulls/The Cure days. I think the actual moment of change came near May 10th, 1986 when my mother sheared off my streaked blonde hair while I sat on a lawn chair behind my childhood home at 10755 Spring St., Omaha, Nebraska 68124. I’ll include a picture of the coif back then because it’s vital to the story – vidal sassoon. Back on task. The problem is that I’ve got at least two months of not mucking with the top aside from a quick trim. Habib and Faraj at the barbershop show their distain for my plan every time I wander in for a cleaning…as if I’m a dog. They must have bets on when I’ll wander in and say “off with my head”. Very autobiographically Marie Antoinette.

The hair is essentially a bad girlfriend. You want to make it work, in the long run it will be okay, why stop now?, make it work, be patient, she’s got a great personality, maybe even great body. It seems shallow, it is shallow, but it’s how many decisions are made – think of those blind dates. I’ll tough it out, “take one for the team”, contribute to the cause. But I’ll tell you this…the first time she pisses me off, she’s gone, friend or no friend.

Peace, out.

T