Go Ask Alice

My hair has officially reached Greg Brady status once again. I am in serious need of a haircut. This is the first public announcement that I need one. Usually, when this time comes, I like to let everybody know for about a week or two while I suffer with my 70's -do. All the while, I delay getting the actual haircut until I have somewhere to be where Johnny Bravo locks just aren't acceptable.

I really shouldn't wait like this. We're all trying to improve our youthful appearance these days and I'm told a fresh trim makes me look 3 to 4 months younger. When I do go to get the haircut, it's never really that bad. It usually takes only 10-15 minutes and some useless smalltalk. Why do people who cut hair always feel the need to share too much of their personal lives with the nameless stranger sitting in the chair? Yes, yes, I don't care that your neighbor has parked their El Camino in your grass, I just want you to take a little more off the sides. Thanks.

I guess the reason I stall the haircut time after time is the not-so-repressed memory from my youth. When I was 9 or 10 years old, my mother snipped the bottom of my ear off in the kitchen while she was doing some home hair styling. Truth be told, it was only a tiny sliver of flesh. We actually found it on the kitchen floor. We considered preserving it in ice to have it reattached later, but after the bleeding stopped I really just wanted to go play stickball so we washed it down the drain... and we never spoke of it again. With the proper flourescent lighting and a small magnifying glass, you can actually still see the scar today, but as I sit here bitching about my Greg Brady hair, there's apparently another scar that runs much deeper.

Alright, I'll lay off the Dr. Phil show for awhile and just go get my damn hair cut... next week or the week after, for sure.