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).
2 comments:
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'.
Meh, you get used to the long hair.
But 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.
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