Written by Eric Rasmussen on April 17, 2013.

I’ve never been good about getting haircuts. It’s too easy to put them off. At some point, realizing my procrastination was undeterrable, I began requesting shorter haircuts.

It did not help.

I watched in horror as my hair problem went from “too long, some of the time” to “too short and then too long, most of the time.” Long periods of awkwardness punctuated by one brief, shining, moment, that perfect cut in the eye of the storm that is my hair.

Each haircut followed by days, or maybe even weeks, of awkwardly short hair. I wait impatiently for it to grow, until one day, after all hope has been lost, my hair reaches its perfect length. For one glorious day my golden hair shines a brilliant light, highlighting my inner beauty while smoothing away the rough edges of time.

For that day alone, I can walk down the street and hear the sounds of birds chirping sprightly, watch as a squirrel pauses its daily routines to behold me, and listen as faraway cars honk at the nearby cars that have stopped in the street, hoping to get a glimpse. I am at one with my surroundings.

The next day I am still welcomed by the birds and the squirrel, but I fear the relationship is already strained. The birds choose branches slightly further away. The squirrel scurries a little faster.

The situation degrades quickly. Soon the cars are honking at me. The birds migrating. The squirrel builds a shelter below ground, choosing to spend its days in a solitary bunker rather than bear witness to my hastening decline. I lose my will to shave. My sideburns thicken to the consistency of marshmallows. Hair spills in all directions, rolling over my forehead, tumbling into my eyes, coating my neck and shoulders.

I begin to resemble a blonde Alan Moore, with a hint of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and a dash of Cousin Itt. I wander the streets alone, avoided and unloved. My former humanity forever obscured by the heavy shroud of hair. I know the time has come to have my hair cut once more, but I cannot bring myself to do it.

It will be a long year.

Tagged: humor, fiction