This is a light-hearted post. I somehow felt one was necessary today . . .
I am one of those men who - despite a venerable age of 48 - is still cursed with a full head of hair.
Unlike my baldheaded brethren, I am forced to consider and make time for things like combs, shampoos and, yes, haircuts. Many of my hairless homies probably envy these worries of mine, but I argue, most firmly, that my barren-domed brothers simply to not understand how oppressive and burdensome a full head of hair truly is.
Allow me to explain. I should have got a haircut back at the end of February, but I kept putting it off for various reasons. And I continued to delay my trip to the barber shop even as the ominous corvid-filled clouds of the birdemic plague began gathering on the horizon. The whole time, my full head of hair kept getting fuller and longer. Some mornings I could barely get it to look civilized, yet I continued to make excuses for not visiting the barber. I was convinced there would always be a tomorrow - and I kept convincing myself of this until one fine day my tomorrows suddenly vanished.
In a flurry of events I still find too harrowing to contemplate, every barber within a thousand-kilometer radius of my home was forced into lockdown. I joined them a mere day later, confined within the four walls of my home, isolated and alone with my overgrown and tangled full head of hair.
During the first few days of lockdown I could barely get myself to look into a mirror. The odd time I did, I could see my full head of hair was mocking me; new curls lolled playfully onto my forehead and swooped derisively over the edges of my ears.
Whenever I do leave the house, I make sure to hide it all beneath a wool hat, even when the temperature is nearly twenty degrees above zero.
But it's always the worst at night. I swear, I can hear it growing in the darkness. It whispers to me then, my hair, and fills my dreams with nightmare visions of a world without barbers.
The problem is, I don't have time for all of that at the moment. I have much more pressing matters to worry about now like stocking up on two-years' worth of toilet paper and buying a flamethrower for when things get really stupid.
There's a crisis brewing and my hair is interfering with all the prepping I still need to do. It's more than I can stand. For example, the other day I had a really hard time cleaning my assault rifle because my damn hair kept getting in my eyes.
On top of that, I have to make extra room in my bunker for hair care products, which means less room for beef jerky, which means my damn neighbor is almost guaranteed to live two weeks longer than I stand to, and it's all thanks to my stupid hair.
My hair-challenged chums don't have to worry about any of that. The smoothness with which they can transition into crisis mode matches the smoothness of their scalps. Face it - bald men are crisis ready! While I'm wasting time stocking up on things like shampoo and hair gel, they're doing useful stuff like installing water-free compost toilets and planting landmines in their front yards.
And when the crisis is all finished, my bald buddies will all come out of it looking exactly the same as they did when they went into - tough and hard, like these guys:
I am one of those men who - despite a venerable age of 48 - is still cursed with a full head of hair.
Unlike my baldheaded brethren, I am forced to consider and make time for things like combs, shampoos and, yes, haircuts. Many of my hairless homies probably envy these worries of mine, but I argue, most firmly, that my barren-domed brothers simply to not understand how oppressive and burdensome a full head of hair truly is.
Allow me to explain. I should have got a haircut back at the end of February, but I kept putting it off for various reasons. And I continued to delay my trip to the barber shop even as the ominous corvid-filled clouds of the birdemic plague began gathering on the horizon. The whole time, my full head of hair kept getting fuller and longer. Some mornings I could barely get it to look civilized, yet I continued to make excuses for not visiting the barber. I was convinced there would always be a tomorrow - and I kept convincing myself of this until one fine day my tomorrows suddenly vanished.
In a flurry of events I still find too harrowing to contemplate, every barber within a thousand-kilometer radius of my home was forced into lockdown. I joined them a mere day later, confined within the four walls of my home, isolated and alone with my overgrown and tangled full head of hair.
During the first few days of lockdown I could barely get myself to look into a mirror. The odd time I did, I could see my full head of hair was mocking me; new curls lolled playfully onto my forehead and swooped derisively over the edges of my ears.
Whenever I do leave the house, I make sure to hide it all beneath a wool hat, even when the temperature is nearly twenty degrees above zero.
But it's always the worst at night. I swear, I can hear it growing in the darkness. It whispers to me then, my hair, and fills my dreams with nightmare visions of a world without barbers.
The problem is, I don't have time for all of that at the moment. I have much more pressing matters to worry about now like stocking up on two-years' worth of toilet paper and buying a flamethrower for when things get really stupid.
There's a crisis brewing and my hair is interfering with all the prepping I still need to do. It's more than I can stand. For example, the other day I had a really hard time cleaning my assault rifle because my damn hair kept getting in my eyes.
On top of that, I have to make extra room in my bunker for hair care products, which means less room for beef jerky, which means my damn neighbor is almost guaranteed to live two weeks longer than I stand to, and it's all thanks to my stupid hair.
My hair-challenged chums don't have to worry about any of that. The smoothness with which they can transition into crisis mode matches the smoothness of their scalps. Face it - bald men are crisis ready! While I'm wasting time stocking up on things like shampoo and hair gel, they're doing useful stuff like installing water-free compost toilets and planting landmines in their front yards.
And when the crisis is all finished, my bald buddies will all come out of it looking exactly the same as they did when they went into - tough and hard, like these guys:
Whereas I will come out of it looking like my family namesake from the aptly named Hair.
Give me a head with hair - yeah, whatever.
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