summer 'do

It was hot as hell last week, so I cut off all my hair.

It's never my intention to grow a long, flowing mane of luxurious blond locks.
No, the jealousy of my folliclly-challenged friends a heavy burden to bear and not one that I would purposefully take up.
But I'm lazy, and I have crazy hair.
If I go to the barber I have to get it all buzzed off or I end up looking like a mental patient being prepped for a lobotomy. The chains are worse- the beauty school dropouts at Fantasic Sam's make such a hash of things I dream of looking like a mental patient.

Even the real salon pros are sometimes befuddled by the irrational tidal patterns of my mane, which is discouraging. Nothing sucks quite like making an appointment and spending fifty bucks to have someone butcher the job.

I had a guy for a while who was great.
He was an insane speed freak...but for beauty we must suffer.
But I had to ban him from the house after he added a sales presentation for crappy, overpriced knives as an opening act before every cut.

I just let it grow and try to ignore it...until the weather makes that impossible.


So, I grabbed a pair of sewing shears and hacked off big handfuls of hair, intending to buzz the stubble into a uniform lawn. Alas, I'd forgotten that the wife dropped my clippers and broke them last year.

The result of my efforts did give me a certain raffishly Johnny Rotten-esque feel, but I wasn't much for punk rock the back when it was fresh and relevant.

I was left with only my beard trimmer, the prospect of which seemed comparable to Klaus Kinski trying to drag the steamship over the mountain in Fitzcarraldo.

But you go to war with the army you have, and while I fell far short of any sort of objective success my trimming efforts did handily eclipse those of the quotes originator.

So what happens after this hair debacle?
I spend the next several days collecting compliments over my "stylish" new hairdo.

sigh.