Once a month I take a shower, change my underwear, and get a haircut. Yesterday was the trifecta . . . actually I take a shower and change my underwear every day, yesterday was a haircut. I get a haircut once a month or when it begins to bug me.
As a kid my father cut my brothers and my hair--the good ol' military buzz cut. He grabbed those clipper and let it ripped until there was nothing left standing but stubble . . . the forest had been sheared and in its wake their was nothing left. This went on until about the fifth grade and I found the courage to stand up for my hair. I told my father I wanted to grow my hair out and that I no longer wanted a buzz cut--shoot, I'd even be willing to walk to the base barbershop and get it cut. The base barbershop was at least a mile from our house and up hill--it was literally up a huge hill. I was surprised when he agreed. The only stipulation he put on it was that it could never cover my eyes. Thus it was that I went from a buzz cut to the shaggy look.
Within three years--8th grade--the hair was over my ears, covering my eyes, and making my father call me my sister's older sister, Johnnie. In those three years I discovered that that little stubble was only the root system for wild wavy hair just waiting to find freedom. I had waves that would make the Pacific Ocean jealous. All my friends had straight stringy hair--no body--no life. I was embarrassed that my hair went wherever it wanted. I was so embarrassed that I even tried Dippity Do--the hair gel before hair gel was famous. A little dab and you could make your hair into a helmet. You could hit it with a hammer and it would phase you. Then I had helmet hair. And, my military father and all the other military fathers in the neighborhood continued to tease us and call us Cinderfella! Years later, when it started to fall out, I learned that lots of females really like wavy hair on guys . . . too little, too late.
Somewhere near the end of my senior year and the start of my college career my hair started to begin the process of receding. Oh, it happened slowly--a little here, a little there--and then one day, whammo! I woke up and my hair had disappeared! What was once long, beautiful hair--wavy hair--had taken a hike and left no forwarding address. There is nothing worse than admitting in one's young adult years that he has a receding hairline.
Long hair on men with receding hairlines looks a little . . . well, ridiculous. I decided that once the hair was going I was not going to continue to allow it to grow. Someone suggested that I let the hair on the back of my head grow--you know, a mullet . . .
. . . but it wasn't quite the style I was looking for. I wasn't that sort of guy who took his second cousin to the prom. Besides I could hear my father teasing me whenever I put it in a ponytail. So that suggestion was out.
There was the always present offering of the "comb over". That is where you let the hair grow long on one side of your head and comb it over the side with the bald spot. Again, nice suggestion, but not my style. Heck, if I was going to do that I would have grown a mullet and combed it over--sort of the Donald Trump look. There is nothing worse than a bad comb over.
As enticing as that was . . . I just couldn't do it. It would have been a pain every time the wind blew and the wind blows all the time when you live in places like Nebraska and Montana. I guess I could have always gone to the Dollar Store, bought some Dippity Do, and made myself a helmet of hair!
No, I did not grow a mullet. I did not create a comb over. I decided to get it cut short--not quite the buzz cut of my childhood, but close enough. I still have enough that I can drag a comb through it once in a while. The most frustrating part of my hair is the little patch at the top of my forehead that refuses to let loose, fall out, and become totally barren. Nope, it is like a little fob that wants to be separated from the rest of the hair--an island of hair. It pretty much does what it wants to. Sort of like John Travolta . . . except without the mustache and money!
. . . in the meantime I continue to get it cut once a month. I get it cut despite the fact I am not really sure what it is that I am paying for. It comes out to about a dollar fifty a minute from start to finish. Sam Ewing says, "Inflation is when you pay fifteen dollars for the ten dollar haircut you used to pay five dollars for." Sticker shock for haircuts still gets to me. What also gets to me is that I never get the same person cutting my hair from month to month--I am at the mercy of whoever is there. That is quite an adventure.
Yesterday was one of those adventures as the person who was cutting my hair was brand, spanking new. Plus she was a "talker"--talkers are the worse if you happen to be an introvert. I do not go into a shop to get a conversation with my haircut, I go to get my haircut. I do not care about the weather, how my weekend was, and whether or not spring is ever going to get to Montana--I just want my haircut. I figure if the person is talking he or she can't be concentrating on cutting my hair. If the person is not concentrating on cutting my hair mistakes can be made. If mistakes are made then I get a bad haircut. Bad haircuts are not good . . . bad haircuts do not make me happy . . . bad haircuts are not good for the well-being of the world.
Jim Morrison, yeah that Jim Morrison of the Doors, said, "Some of the worse mistakes of my life have been haircuts."
The difference between a "good" haircut and a "bad" haircut is a couple of weeks. Thank goodness for hats. With a hat any haircut can look good--well, I take that back, a mullet doesn't look good no matter how you try to hide it. I wear a lot of hats. Have for years. I think I look good in a hat--especially a fitted baseball cap. I'd wear a hat all of the time if I could, but . . . the university frowns on it . . . the congregation doesn't particularly care for it . . .