Around the time I turned 21 I started going through a phase. It had nothing to do with typical 21-year-old hijinks or stereotypical behaviors but was, in fact, centered around my hair.
My hair is typically curly. It is thick hair and straddles the border between dark blond and light brown. Most of my life it has been short, though a few times I’ve let it grow a bit wild just to see the results. Personally, I like to keep my locks short so that I’m not fussing with it.
But around age 21 it was noticed by a few friends, hopefully well-meaning friends, that my hair wasn’t looking good. For reasons unknown, around age 21 my hair would become an obnoxious mess at a certain point after a haircut. A few weeks, perhaps. My uniform, handsome hair would become uneven and tufts of follicles would seem to sprout from unseen angles. Not a lot of sprout, but just enough to be noticeable (at least to me) and make me look a tad weird.
If there’s anything that sucks, it’s looking a tad weird when you don’t intend to.
So, to avoid going all “sprouty” I would have to get my hair trimmed more often. And, of course, one wishes to have their hair trimmed before a big day like Valentine’s Day.
It’s a big day, especially for going out in public. My girlfriend and I were planning on going out to dinner that Valentine’s Day evening, and so I wanted to make sure that my hair was as perfect as it could get. That afternoon, I drove myself to the haircut joint and, when my name was called, slid into the black chair that swiveled like magic.
Too late did I realize that the lady clipping and snipping my hair was going a little overboard. And once they go overboard, what can you do? The hair is gone. They can’t graft that crucial half-inch back on, can they? I hope not, because I didn’t ask ‘em to!
It was an agonizing last few minutes in the chair, knowing that my hair was substantially beneath its optimal length. Instead of looking suave and handsome, I feared I resembled a crew-cutted nerd. Gamely, I headed home and tried on Valentine’s Day ensembles, trying to make up in fashion what I now lacked in follicles.
I knew it was bad when I apologized to my girlfriend for the bad haircut and, instead of reassuring me that all was well, she simply smiled and said “well, hair grows back.”
Youch!
Well, my hair did grow back and I have a better barber now. My beautiful fiance, Brittany, is in charge of caring for the length of my locks and she is quite skilled with the clippers. Which is fortunate because Valentine’s Day is on the horizon and my hair is longer right now than it’s been in several years.
If only I can remember to bring her haircut kit when I see her next, I’ll be golden!
If I forget, though, I’ll have to subject myself to the questionable judgment of the barber manning the black swivel chair.
This Valentine’s Day, if you see a short blond man with a dubious haircut, pray his name is not Owen Rust…