July 8th, 2000. Saturday Afternoon.

Just because someone doesn’t love you
the way you want them to,
doesn’t mean they don’t love you
with all they have…

– Unknown


It would seem that so many of my entries begin with “I”. Maybe I am being overly sensitive but I fear misinterpretation of my self-analysis as arrogance.

However, it was I who scared myself in the bathroom a few minutes ago when, unexpectedly, I was confronted by a convict in the mirror. It all started many years ago when I first began to feel a little insulted that I should have to pay an equal amount of money as everyone else to get a haircut when it was painfully obvious that both the time and skill involved, not to mention the hardware, were significantly less. Even now, I choke at the thought of paying $25 to a person who will spend at the most 5 minutes with the clippers and send me on the way. No matter how good it feels when she is washing my hair or brushing her body against me (which, I have been told, is not my imagination, but rather a PR stunt on their behalf.) as she trims my sideburns, I just cannot justify the expense.
“Sod it..” I finally thought, “I can do this myself”.
It wasn’t until several months later that Mariska and I bought the clippers and she started trimming my hair almost every week. Of course, once she was gone, so was my stylish quaff.

That’s when I started to take matters into my own hands. Carefully and with a great deal of patience, it is possible to get a reasonable do with the clippers yourself. However, you then need someone to shave and straighten the back of your neckline. Suffice to say that eventually, be it every six or ten weeks, you will end up at the hairdresser’s. This week was not one of those weeks. This week, it was up to me to get the right gate and get rid of that messy mane which, since the removal of the soft top, only serves to annoy me each time I step from my vehicle.

In my customarily confident manner, I ran the clippers directly from my forehead to my crown in one single stroke, carving a streak down the centre of my hair that was both beautiful and yet eerily unfamiliar. I looked at the plastic gate on the clipper and smiled wryly as I realized I had the wrong one. 1/2 inch it read.

Do any of you have any idea how short half an inch is? Really?

Let’s just state for the record that it was not my intention to go that short and that if my mother could see me now she would have a fit. Too bad the digital is at work, otherwise I would share a picture with you. It’s not a particularly pretty sight. I walked through the mall on my way to the hair salon, people looked the way they usually do at a guy in a sleeveless shirt and baggy shorts, the women working there for some reason gave me confidence in my looks, they were all polite, quite obviously enchanted and flattered at my charm. (That’s another thing, I seem to have mislaid my charm somewhere, only to have it resurface for a few hours today, taking me completely by surprise.). However, as I left the store, the looks of sadness on the faces of the employees was painfully evident. I had never really believed that women were so disenchanted with that crew cut look, however it was hit home with a sledge today. Moving on through the mall on my way to meet Me, Myself and Irene, I was shocked at the overwhelming number of people who gave sideways looks, frightened glances or challenging stares. It was distressing enough that I had to go tot he Gap just to see a friendly face (and ribbed tanks for $9!).

Hours later, at home alone, the experience had faded from my mind, replaced with amusing little snippets of the movie. However, as I passed the mirror on the bathroom wall, just as hank and Charlie did in this afternoon’s matinee, I was confronted from the mirror by a very mean, surly and borderline psychotic looking hairdo. It wasn’t the face, it was most definitely the hair.

I was informed, however, to a satisfactory degree that in time, it will all grow back. Let’s count our blessings shall we?

But for a while today, in a tank top, baggy shorts and a crew cut, I was most definitely cozy in the mold of the wife beater. Which is funny in a way since MMAI (Me, Myself and Irene) had got me thinking about why it is that stereotypes are so funny, so readily used and yet so strongly opposed. I can imagine that at some point, the racial stereotyping will be attacked as will Mr. Carrey who, in my opinion, did quite a bang up job in the part. That aside, though, for the first time in living memory, I believe that my hair is too short.

Quite a life I lead, huh?

I was fortunate enough to see Cyn at the Workout this morning also. Her news that she had re-joined for at least another 6 months was somewhat disturbing after the crazy treatment she has received at their hands, but it was an opportunity for us to catch up a little. She looked as good as ever, the familiar look of infectious happiness was a welcome sight and for a few minutes at least I was able to bask in the warmth of our friendship, something I have been missing of late.

What? Surprised I would miss a friendship? You know me too well….