I was deep in thought under a maple tree the other day, pondering existentialism, when I began reflecting on my hair and how I should totally use one of those programs where you upload a photo of yourself, then add different hairstyles to see how awesome/hideous you look. I’m thinking fro. Oh wait, I DO have a fro pic!
A few weeks ago at work when Darrin saw me and said, “Hey, Peter Brady!” I knew that a) he was having a very Jan Brady day, and b) he was also harassing me for me vague resemblance to Peter Brady (of The Brady Bunch) by way of longish hair.
I hadn’t had a haircut in 6 months. The last time I’d had it cut was right before I went on a mission cruise in December. Then I gave up. No, I didn’t give up, but I let the hair go and it got longer and longer. In fact, my hair was probably longer than at any time since I was in grade school in the 80s when my parents were apparently trying to scar me with a lack of fashion. Those old childhood haircuts pop out from the aging photos and scream “Cut ME!”. Why my boyhood hair was so masochistic is beyond me.
I worried my hairstylist had crossed me off her list of clients. I’ve been going to her for maybe 10 years and I usually have her cut my hair cut every 3-4 weeks, but here it had been 6 long months. I felt kind of bad leaving her like that without a word and kept thinking I should at least call her to say hi. Maybe see how her kid’s soccer team is doing. She might even be able to trim things up and help focus the direction of my shaggy mistake. I was still quite unused to the feel of it. It was getting pretty long in the back. And in the front. Well, it got long everywhere.
Maybe it’s a pre-midlife crisis. I suppose I wanted to try out a new look. After all, I’d had pretty much the same cut since college: short on the sides and back with some floppiness on top. I think I know where the limit is on the length. It’s not like I’m going to go all hippy and move to the corner of Haight-Ashbury to panhandle for drug money. And ‘long’ is relative. It wasn’t that long. It wouldn’t have hit my shoulders for months (I have a giraffe neck). It never made it that far. One drawback to long hair is that the evidence of my grey hair is much more pronounced, which is a bummer (still not as grey as Darrin’s).
Just before I finally got it cut, I visited my mom who I could tell didn’t really like my hair long, but didn’t want to say anything harsh (knowing full well my future therapy sessions were already dedicated to her). She did try the passive-aggressive tack and asked if any of the managers at my office have long hair. I told her the women do. Anyway, I’m not an executive and I’m not in danger of becoming one soon (lots of people would have to die first. I mean ‘retire’.).
Of course, I cut it just after that. It never got to be as nice as Rob’s or Peter’s (friends with nice longish hair). I called my stylist and after a brief explanation of my experimental hair madness, all was forgiven. Her son’s soccer team is
fine (but it’s little league, so what do you expect?). I think she was a little thrilled at having that much more hair to hack off. Instead of returning to my classic style, though, she and I decided we’d experiment with something new, which is why I have weird hair now. But you know, that’s ok. I’ve learned to live with slightly iffy hair. If I comb it wrong, it looks somewhat like a youth pastor’s hair from the 80s. Not really the look I was going for, but at least it’s not like Peter Brady’s.db
The secret word is hirsuteness
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