…since I last sat in a barber’s chair. No lie. A full calendar year. Don’t really remember why I decided to stop — I liked my barber; Louie over at Tony’s Barbershop next to the KFC where Glendale Boulevard meets Fletcher — but as I just kept not going the idea of just letting things grow kinda grew on me. After all, I’ve been wearing it short since I was in ninth grade.
Not that in the past 12 months I haven’t tried to keep some semblance of order to my locks. I bought one of those clipper kits at Costco a few months back and use it to kept the sides short. Mostly. And Susan’s been a dear in helping keep the back from going full-blown mullet — or at least she used to until she finally stopped bringing up the rear probably in hopes I’d seek the services of a professional to tame things.
It’s true things are pretty wild up there. See? I call this look the Angler Fish:
Maybe you can’t tell from the above snap, but there’s hairs up top in that air that are knockknockknockin’ on the eight-inch-length door. The last time I wore it anywhere near that long? Sixth grade. And that wasn’t by choice, that was by the haircuts-aren’t-as-big-a-priority-as-food rule given my mom’s limited income.
Now it’s by choice, and I think it’s probably a mid-life thing. I’ve worn my hair so close to the scalp for so long that it’s nice at this late stage to be able to let it all hang out — and actually makes me miss not doing so when I was younger. Maybe it’s a silly way to capture lost youth, but far less so than, say… a Harley.
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