A year or 2 after I was forcibly removed from my Mother's womb, I sprouted a thick head of angelic blonde hair. It was long, shiny and made people's day. Over the years it got progressively shorter, and darker (not to mention a brief high school infatuation with dying it all sorts of colors *SO FUCKING PUNK RAWK*) until I finally settled on a reasonable compromise, which was nothing of the sort because I just buzzed it all off.
Usually by myself. With shitty clippers (or sometimes shitty places like Great Clips, or the Estonians down the block).
And for a awhile it worked. Knowing me is knowing that I dress simply, and besides the occasional cocaine/mushroom binge, live simply. Case in point; not only do I pay for the Tribune to arrive at my door, I fucking recycle. Crazy, I know. I'm saving Mother Earth, one bottle of Croatian beer at a time!
Anyways, so my fucking hair. Last time I was asked by a kind, gentle, elderly man if I was in "the Service" was back in January. It was trimmed a month later...and...not until right before my brother's wedding, approximately 2 months ago.
Perhaps it's the near onslaught of winter, but I have developed Hair-Muffs [patent pending] that impede entry of ear buds, produce a whistle whence strolling about this windiest of cities, and make me look like a lesbian.
Let's not even begin a discourse about the FUCKING KEGGER going on behind my head. I think, nay, I know Motely Crue circa 1985 is partying back there (opening for Van Halen). And my bangs sometimes brush up against my eyeballs. True. Story.
-I fear I look like my Mom after she's been yachting.
-I fear I look like I'm constantly searching for the nearest American Apparel store.
-I fear I look like I'll be smitten by otters.
-I fear I look like an asshole.
-I fear I look like I'm living out my secret Hair musical fantasy and you're not...so fuck you.
-I fear I look like I won't blend into Branson, MO, but I probably will (if I can hide the gay).
-I fear I look like I could be mistaken for someone named "Uncle Jesse".
-I fear I look like I enjoy shopping for hair traps for my shower at the Crafty Beaver (true).
-I like with gentle breeze of a mullet.
-I like looking like I got up and left without a thought about my appearance. Fuck looking good when you're humping the bus at 7:30am.
So...there you have it. I need a haircut. No later than Monday, because this shit on my head is really beginning to annoy me. I want to be able to put a pencil, or perhaps a pen behind me ear once again when I'm tasked with inventory duties. Short of that, perhaps I'll go sailing (grabs yellow Sony Walkman).
HIDE THE GAY!?!?! You've obviously never been to Branson MO my friend. Those dancers are G-A-Y. If you look like you say, fear not, just buy some camo and move on down there. You'd be a native in no time. Not that it's a good idea, I'm just sayin'.
ReplyDeleteMeh, you get used to the long hair.
ReplyDeleteBut if you do in fact have a mullet (or the normal haircut, as I learned from my visit to Russia), then never forget its motto:
Business in Front; Party in the Back.