Quote of the Day:
“Get a haircut and get a real job.” –George Thorogood
TB turns 40 this year. I always thought that by the time I was 40 I would no longer be constrained by childish behavior and concerns. I thought I would stop cussin by now. Fear of needles? Not for a 40 year old man. I never imagined myself still wearing t-shirts and tennis shoes at this age or still dreading my morning shave. And though I never really considered this one, if I had, I would have thought I’d be over hating to get a haircut.
A haircut is painless. It takes fifteen minutes, tops, out of my day. For that matter it only takes fifteen minutes out of my quarter–I go three months in between usually. But I hate it. I don’t like the way I look when I come out, I don’t like the way the hairs get stuck in the back of my shirt and I really don’t like the ever-increasing proportion of grays that come tumbling down while I sit helplessly and watch. The twenty bucks it costs to endure this galls me. The smells. The buzz. The questions. It’s all too much. How the hell do I know what you should do? Just trim it so I don’t need to come back for two months, can stretch it to three and I don’t look too ridiculous!
I am not certain of the root cause of my strange animosity toward barberism. Maybe its the memory of my brother being cut behind the ear when I was but a tot. Perhaps in a prior and more interesting existence I was offed by a scissor wielding assassin. I think the bowl cuts administered in childhood by my otherwise saintly Mother probably played a role.
There is another factor at play here. You see, TB has one of the most vicious cowlicks in history. Even Alfalfa would look upon it with pity, his saucer-sized eyes peeled wide with wonder. The funny thing is I have come to embrace the cowlick through the years. Barbers came and went and haplessly hacked around the offending spot. Cocky cosmetologists, stylists and hairdressers took their place and each in turn declared war on the cowlick, then inevitably surrendered and paid homage to its power. They hate the cowlick and thus I have come to embrace it. It is, I suppose, a measure of recompense at being subjected by society to the seasonal scissor-work. A silver lining of sorts; eh, I’m an optimist at heart.