I haven't cut my hair since June. That's because I have an "outta-sight, outta-mind" policy towards most things, and my hair being always out of sight, doesn't feature on my mind very often. For most people around me though, the abominable shock of hair on my head is anything but out of sight, and thus usually a cause for great consternation.
However, that concerns me little.
Every so often - generally about twice a year - this charmed life of mine is rudely interrupted by a chance encounter with a mirror. That's when I make my little half-yearly trip down to the hairdresser. And never being one to believe in half measures, I get the hairdresser to cut it as short as possible. That's my philosophy - if I'm going to be getting my hair cut only twice a year, I might as well get as much of it off as possible.
Interestingly, though, women have the exact opposite philosophy. When a woman gets her hair cut, she wants to get rid of as little of it as possible. Par is 1/8th of an inch. Maybe half an inch if she's feeling particularly bold on that day.
No guy can ever notice when a female friend has had her hair trimmed. Only females can. I don't know how they do it. I mean there's absolutely no change in the length! What did you waste all that money on the hairdresser for?
I digress. As I was saying, my six months of pleasure are up, and it's time once again for that dreaded chair. This time the devil has manifested itself not in the form of a mirror, but instead a passport renewal form. I need some photographs to submit along with the form, and my counsel has advised me that the "afro" died out with Jimi Hendrix.
Oh, and while I'm at it, I might as well get my monthly shave over with too.
Update: The Next Morning...
I have to confess that the above post was written very late last night, at a time when my mind was severely caffeinated and sleep-deprived. Now that I can think straight again, all I can say is - "Just whom was I trying to kid?"
The hair shall remain!