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So those are my ears

My hair has been disastrously long lately – you must already know this, as I talk of little else. This video doesn’t even begin to detail the problem, as it was shot over two weeks ago, when someone might still have mistaken me for a productive member of society. In it I’m pouring shots of Jagermeister for myself, Bryan, and Kelly, and I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you can piece it together. In any case, mentally tack on two weeks worth of growth and you get an idea what I’m talking about here. The fine strands at the nape of my neck curl outward about three feet from my head, and my bangs sway seductively like seaweed in front of my forehead. They’re fun to play with, but every time I glimpse my emo mullet in a mirror I can’t help thinking “that guy needs a damn haircut.”

I’ve been flapping hints about getting a cut at everyone I know, hoping someone will seize hold of one and yank me right into a barber shop, but as always society is split right down the middle: half think I’m lovable, half think I’m disgusting. The former half always responds to my protests that “this is the longest my hair’s ever been!” with “that’s sad”; the latter has stuck to the tried-and-true method of flinging vicious verbal barbs my direction. Today I decided I agreed with what I hope was the sensible half and stopped by Rudy’s on the Ave. Monica wasn’t there, so I grudgingly added my name to the wait list and waded into what I hoped wouldn’t be too harrowing a hair-cut adventure.

I don’t remember my barber’s name, but he had at least 8 visible tattoos and a shaved head – not exactly a look that screams “consumer confidence,” but as I’ve pointed out, it’s just hair. I climbed into the chair and told him “I don’t really care what you do, as long as my hair gets a lot shorter,” and that was apparently enough guidance. He spoke at length about investing in real estate as he restored my shaggy mane to something that would no longer cause anyone over the age of 40 to cluck their disappointment while shaking their head. It’s always a crapshoot drawing a barber at random that way, and this guy shook my serenity when, halfway through the cut, he abandoned his scissors in favor of a straight razor. Holding clumps of hair in between his delicate digits, he’d hack away with his instrument like a farmer taking a scythe to wheat. It felt like he was painlessly pulling out fistfuls of hair at once, and I didn’t know what to do. But it turned out alright in the end, as it almost always does. Trust your barber. I could have done without the two-finger dollop of hair product he smeared into my scalp at the end, but I make it a policy not to argue with a man wielding a razor.

I washed it all out in Lake Washington after jumping off the bridge with Dillon. We saw a turtle swimming around from the top, but my efforts to locate him and make him my very own upon hitting the water proved fruitless.

Posted in Musings.


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