It has been decreed that today is Haircut Day. Not by me; by my wife, who has gone with the “assumptive close” in stating that I can meet her after work so we can head to the barber.
A quick trip upstairs to the bathroom mirror confirms that I am, indeed, getting a little wooly. In my previous life, I was in the office each day. It provided a daily sanity check on the unruliness of my hair. When I got to the point where I didn’t like going into the office because my head was just too shaggy, it was time for a cut.
In some ways, I miss that sanity check. I mean, I’ve got a seriously bad hairstyle happening on my head now. It’s getting dangerously close to a mullet — and with all due respect to mullet-wearers, that’s not the direction I’m trying to take.
So it’s off to the barber this evening. I really don’t enjoy getting my hair cut. I guess I’m terrified that the stylist is going to look at my head thoughtfully for a few moments and then declare that they just can’t do anything for me. Or that they’ll announce I have lice. Or they’ll just hack it all off. So for 15 or 20 minutes I just sit there, staring in the mirror while wondering if I’m being narcissistic for staring in the mirror, while whoever happens to be shredding my locks that day does their business and maintains an idle patter the whole time.
Can’t wait to get back home so I can hide away in the safety and solitude of my home office.