'Personal beauty is a greater recommendation than any letter of reference.' -Aristotle
2011 - Let's talk hair. Specifically, I would like to talk about my
hair. I cannot honestly remember the last time I ran a comb or a
brush through it. We're talking years. Eight years. Perhaps longer. I
am not sure what that says about me but it's probably not good. A few
years ago when my hair was short I'd put gel in it and just bring it
all forward. Total time expenditure: about 60 seconds. This contrasts
sharply with my high school days when I would spend up to 45 minutes
'doing' it. Hair dryer. Hair spray. The whole nine yards. Few things
would give me more pleasure than stepping through a time portal and
kicking my own ass. Clearly, I deserved it.
forward to today. I have not cut my mop in over nine months. That is
almost the longest period of growth since my birth (I may or may not
resembled a little girl when I was very young (allegedly). It was
not really a conscious decision. I did not wake up one morning, look
in the mirror and think Damn,
I bet I'd be one sexy muther f***ing beast with a mane like a lion.
It just sort of happened. On the road I normally cannot be bothered
to get it cut. Language barrier, laziness, and a sincere lack of
concern are all factors. Normally, I just wait until it is driving me
crazy and then, if it is convenient, I'll make the effort. And it
has, at times, served a purpose by providing that extra little bit of
insulation in the cold (Ahhh…Nepal) and a little more coverage from
the sun in el desierto (Ahhhh..the Sahara). But lately it has come to
embody a concept I am having trouble letting go of: Freedom. I'm
inching ever closer to the conclusion of this boundless
quasi-existential escapade. Reality is closing in. I don't like it. I
don't like it at all.
I am clinging to a tangible representation of my two year (and
counting) globetrotting extravaganza: my hair. I'm no Fabio but
it is not terribly unbecoming on me…probably. I've never really had
nice hair. When I was kid every barber and hair stylist (sadly, I may
have visited one or two) would tell me in a not so subtle way how
f***ed up my hair was. Too many cowlicks.
Folks seemed to delight in telling me my hair would suck when I grew
up (luckily I haven't yet). Honestly, it was mildly traumatic when I
was child but I somehow managed to persevere (Martin Luther King Jr.
and Gandhi would be proud). Well, look me now! They can lick my
then there is the 'because I can' factor. One day in the not so
distant future I may reflect fondly on the days when my hair would
grow of its own accord and did not require a spray can for subtle
touch ups. And although I've spotted the occasional gray hair I have
yet to be overrun. So I say 'Carpe Crinis!' (Seize the hair!).
I let it grow. Even if it sometimes irritates the snot out of me.
Even if it blocks my vision and poses a danger while driving. Even if
when pulled forward it is impossible to ignore the Cousin
Even if I catch myself tossing it to one side with that unavoidable
air of effeminacy or using my hands to tame my unruly
filaments metro style.
Even if cornered by members of the Anti-Hippie
Action League and
forced to chose between a trim or torture. Even if commanded by Moses
himself to 'Cut thy hair!' or face eternal damnation. Even if the
only requirement for my employment as towel boy for the Danish
National Female Sand Volleyball Squad is a haircut. I will let it
|I am hoping to be the new Mentos mascot.|
|Long-haired creepy freak or intrepid crime fighter? You thought you knew me. Think again.|
|My poker face. |
|The fruits of my Invisibility For Dumb Asses purchase on Amazon. I'm almost there.
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'Love me or hate me, but spare me your indifference.' -- Libbie Fudim