I need a haircut. In fact, I’ve needed a haircut for about 2 weeks now. I’m not yet at the point where it’s become a hygiene issue, but it is a nagging concern. I don’t expect the ladies to have any sympathy for my situation, since a trim for me takes no more than 20 minutes without any wash, coloring, styling etc. needed. It’s a pretty simple, in and out process, but finding the time to get to the shop between work and home activities is a challenge.
The real dilemma I face now with my hair is that it really only looks good for about 3 weeks out of the 10 week (or so) period between cuts. I have always liked keeping my hair short; not quite military standard but certainly of a length that has eliminated the need to own a comb for as long as I can remember. However, I am now at a certain age where a cut by razor alone exposes far too much skull. It used to be a simple procedure: a #2 guard for the sides and a #3 guard for the crown. Where once that method resulted in a cut sufficient to scrub a roast turkey pan, now it reveals enough reflective white skin to warn passing ships of the danger of underwater reefs.
Nearly 21 days must pass before the hair has grown long enough to fill in the dead spots. Then comes a glorious three week period when my hair works: in the wind, right out of the shower, at the gym, with that special someone. It’s like being a member in the “Hair Club For Men” without paying the dues and having to attend a lot of meetings. Life is good.
And then without warning it’s too long. And not rock star “too long” with a glorious mane of hair hanging in my eyes and down to the middle of my back. A weird, uneven “too long” where the sides have grown straight out at a faster rate than the top creating a mushroom effect, while the widow’s peak at the front has corkscrewed into a whispy, half-hearted Flock of Seagulls cowlick. And I need a haircut.
Now begins the agony of trying to shoehorn in 20 minutes on the way home from work, between dance class and piano lessons, while waiting for a prescription to be filled or gambling on making it in after soccer but before the parlor closes. For nearly three weeks, it becomes the primary focus of my non husband/parent/employee/coach intellect. When I leave the house, my pocket “pat down” process goes like this: wallet, keys, glasses, cell phone, “$3 off haircut” coupons.
I only hope I can make it in to the shop before my long suffering wife (the one who has too look at it and, if I’m lucky, run her fingers through it) has to make the transition from gentle reminders to aggravated nagging. Wish me (and her) luck.