If You Were Wondering About My Hair...

The world is so full of a number of things, to quote Robert Louis Stevenson, that most of the time, I am mired in existential dread, to quote me. So, today I’m choosing to focus on a single triviality.

My hair is a thing for me. Always has been. It’s the bellwether of my soul, which is fervent but fickle. Ideally, one’s soul should be above vanity and have bigger, more significant fish to fry, but since I can’t singlehandedly do anything about the world’s hellbound flaming handbasket, l turned my attention to my hair.

See, I chopped it off a couple of years ago, telling my stylist, Emily, I wanted to look like a cub scout with bedhead. She knows me and understood exactly what I meant. I daresay it suited me. Over time it’s turned into upkeep, a concept no careless cub scout would ever countenance. I refuse to be that person, diligently making an appointment for a trim every six weeks, which is why now, I look terrible.

Have you ever grown out a pixie cut? It’s brutal. I appear to be wearing a fright wig I fished from a gutter the day after a rain-soaked Halloween. Still, it delights me no end to be accomplishing something every day in terms of hair growth. Rather than scheduled maintenance, I’m embracing whimsey and whatever the fuck this is.

There were lots of family photos taken this past weekend, and I look rough in them, but why would anyone be looking at me, with so much familial cuteness around? I’m cool to crawl out of my hair rut unobserved, eager for what the future brings. I have no idea where this lands, but, as I tell myself, surprise me.