The last time I got my hair cut was January 10, 2020. Obviously, I looked up old bank statements to find out precisely when the last transaction was made to my barber, but I knew it was way back a while because I remember the disgusting growth of my hair throughout the weeks into months after my child was born and ‘Murica descended into the endless pit of pandemic.
For obvious distancing reasons, this could not be rectified at all for a period of time, and I genuinely had concerns that my barber, who is a one-person independent operation, might actually be in jeopardy during the initial onset of coronavirus and the sheer nightmare it was wreaking on small businesses across the country. I entertained the idea of experimenting with my own clippers and perhaps doing something on my own, especially seeing as how I rarely leave the house as it is and nobody would see any abominations that might’ve happened before it could grow back in, but with a kid in tow and life getting turned upside down, my hair was barely a concern.
As some might recall, Georgia was basically the first state to rashly drop most distancing guidelines and our idiot governor was very quick to allow for haircuts to be one of the services to be allowed back, regardless of the endless spike of infection cases throughout the country. Despite the fact that I had a green light to go get my hair taken care of, there was a large part of me that simply refused to go along with it, because I frankly did not agree with the notion that barbers and salons were “essential;” they were more catering to the vanity of people who feel the need that their fucking hair is worth putting human lives in danger.
So, for months, my hair has been growing and becoming quite unruly throughout the process. For a while, I was still able to keep somewhat of the spiky faux-hawk look that’s kind of become my general look, but eventually the length began to defy gravity, and it started to become the long wavy mess that it becomes when it gets too long.
A part of me was tickled at the idea of trying to grow a man-bun since full disclosure, I actually don’t mind the way a lot of them can look. But that would likely have required longer than a year to really accomplish, and frankly when I get flustered, anxious or stressed, hair getting in my face is one of the easiest triggers of aggravation there could be, which is why I went short every single time I even thought about letting it grow out. Plus, my hair is really thin to begin with, so even with tied up, it’s a small yield of fluff that doesn’t seem worth it.
All the while, mythical wife fucking hated it, and has been asking when I was going to get it cut. Shocking nobody, there was a small part of me that was also tickled at the idea of letting it grow just to troll her, but ultimately she was right that it was unruly, unkept, and that there was little point in continuing to grow it if there were no plans for it.
My step-mother-in-law took some candid photos the last time they came down, and I frankly was not pleased with what I saw in myself. But the real kicker and the straw that broke the camels back was that I’ve been watching The Vow on HBOmax, which is a docuseries about the NXIVM cult, and I realized that my hair was starting to look very similar to Keith Raniere, the creepy vanguard of the whole organization.
So after eight months, I’ve decided to put my life on the line and go and get my hair cut. Thankfully, my barber is still in business, although she’s obviously pivoted to an appointment-only, masks-required operation, which is really the only thing she can do in this day and age, which is a shame in its own right.
But at this point, the risk is worth the reward, as there will be far more happy people as a result of me finally getting my hair cut, and as my wife points out, I don’t want to look like a goat in all photos with my child, so there’s as good as reason as any to clean my shit back up. At least shaving it all away is what hides just how much gray hair I have these days.
