It would not be an exaggeration to say that i have never have had a single "good hair day" in my life. I didn't even have hair until i was three and it started to fall out when i was maybe 16.
Okay, so maybe i had one good hair day. I remember one day--back when i was trying to be a punk rocker--that i dressed up in a sort of redneck, thrift store, heavy metal kind of punk outfit. I recall i had a sleeveless t-shirt with a spray-painted anarchy symbol, a lab coat i'd stolen from my father, numerous Van Halen-inspired bandannas wrapped around ankles and wrists, and--the coup de grace--i had my hair done up in a modified Flock of Seagulls. Instead of the wings on either side of my head, i'd done just one side and had it pointed over one eye. This violent strip of hair was also dyed a beautiful orange color with the help of Merthiloate, a mercury tainted, indelibly staining antiseptic. Okay. That day I looked great.
But that was all.
I'm reflecting on all this because just last night i passed a new marker in my life. I had to
shave off an entire patch of hair that had been abandoned and left to die on the front of my head. This hair had become its own desert island there, and, you know, when it's your own head and hard to see anyway, and you see your own head all the time it's difficult to know when interventions like this have to be made. In my case, i was helped out by seeing my own head in a mirror without the benefit of my glasses. I saw only the stark contrasts of pale head skin and an unfortunate number of mouse colored patches on this same said head. I saw the head, and thought, man, that guy's got some ugly hair, put my glasses back on, and discovered it was my own head i'd been looking at. Time for a change.
Here's the new me. Not much different from the old me, but don't tell me I don't care of bidness.
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