You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The Haircut that has been forever postponed.
I’m standing in front of the mirror.
Who is that guy staring back me?
Is it Ringo Starr? Did we just smoke dope with the Dali Lama on our way back from India?
My hair looks like it’s on Spring Break in Daytona Beach.
It’s wild and unpredictable like a Holiday Inn full of drunk co-eds.
My cowlicks are flowing like wine on the El Camino.
I have curls that make surfers want to hang 10.
I need a hair cut.
I need a haircut. Crap, I needed a haircut 2 weeks ago.
So what’s going on?
That’s a good question.
I know when it’s time to get a haircut.
It ain’t brain surgery.
When my hair becomes a living, sentient being, I know it’s time to get it cut.
When people confuse me for Cousin It, it’s time to get a haircut.
Trust me. It’s time to get a haircut.
My hair is like your hair. But then my hair goes all NASCAR, hitting the wall and catching fire.
You see that rescue crew racing onto the track with Vidal Sassoon and scissors? That’s for me.
Bring in the chopper. Hair-Lift that son of a bitch out of here.
So I have long hair. I look like I’m heading to Woodstock.
My hair is so wavy, it looks like it has jumped out of a plane without a parachute.
It is wild and flowing like a stallion galloping across the Nebraska plains.
I’ve been going to the same woman for 19 years.
She knows my hair better than I do.
If my body explodes in a bloody pulp.
She will be called in to identify my remains.
“Yes that’s his cowlick. It’s a powerful thing.”
“Bag Him Danno”
My hair stylist is a hirsute Tiger Woods delicately clipping split ends and massaging problem spots.
2 weeks ago, when my hair kept walking straight even though I had turned the corner, I called her.
“Hey.”
“Yeah.”
“it’s time.”
“I know. I saw.”
“OK. I’ll be in Friday.”
“See ya.”
19 years. We don’t have to say much.
She has a hairy GPS to my scalp.
She is a salon savant, waking in the middle of the night, sweating, panting, having an ESP flashback about bad hair days.
In her vision she sees uncontrollable curls, like kelp fields, choking the dermis on my scalp.
She knows I work in a professional world where image is everything.
Since she is the author of my latest hair doo, the last thing she wants people at home saying is “That Guy’s hair looks like ass.”
So Friday comes and I look in the mirror.
I see the curls dance like a rave in Reno.
My locks sneer at me like and angry kindergartener. I have two parts, going in different directions.
I am Frankenstein’s hairy cousin.
Sponge Bob has a better look than me.
“Today, you’re getting cut,” I say to the angry mop on my head.
It’s Friday afternoon and I get a text.
“I am sick in the E.R. I will have to cancel your appointment.”
“What?” I gasp.
I know my girl is sick, but what about my hair?
I text her and tell her to get well.
“Oh and by the way, can we re-schedule?”
“I’m dieing,” she responds.
“I know. Get better.” I feel guilty.
The weekend comes and goes and I am now a human with a brown mop on his neck.
I comb my hair and the bristles break.
I push my hair to the right and I hear a monster voice screech “F Off.”
I am now afraid of my own hair.
Something scary is growing out of the follicles in my scalp.
Is that an eye?
What’s that lock doing?
It is like a redwood forest of hairy growth.
Apparently my hair salon savant is really really sick.
I just got my 2nd call from the salon.
“Hey she’s flat on her back,” the head salon mistress tells me.
My thoughts go to my girl, but also to my locks that are laying on my head like a frolicking octopus.
Can I go to Super Cuts?
Of course I can.
Will she be mad?
Can you cheat on your stylist?
No.
Wait, you can?
I don’t know if I can make it another weekend.
I am starting to look like Charles Manson in Helter Skelter.
My hair is straight out of Compton.
I might as well get some afrosheen and a hair pick.
Until my girl gets better, I’m gonna have to grin and bear it.
I’m going to look in the mirror and say wear it long wear it strong sailor.
Anyone know where I can buy a scrunchie?
No Haircuts.
Life’s Crazy™