Tonsorial Sisyphus
I need a haircut. Actually it's not so much that I need a haircut right now but rather I'll need one if I don't get it cut soon. I imagine this is the case for most people.
In any event, at this point my hair looks as good as it is going to for this cutting cycle. I don't know about you, but right as my hair starts to get longer it really falls into place. Maybe the new hair is just starting to relax and fit in with all the other hairs up there, who can say. Perhaps they're about to start up a rec volleyball team.
The thing is, some people I've found look best right at the moment their haircut is over. The stylist has, well, styled it properly; it's all sitting up or waved or permed or gelled or whatever and you know that it's all downhill from there.
There's no way that person is going to keep that going for a whole six weeks or however long they wait between appointments. By the end of the first week they've decided they "don't really like that style anymore" and want something new next time. The following Wednesday they've decided a nice hat is all the cranial style they need.
Some people's hair never seems to grow at all until right when they need a haircut. I don't know how this happens. It's usually with short-haired people.
My hair, though, looks okay after the cut, but steadily increases in power week by week. Right now I'm at week 6, with an appointment a few days from now, and I don't even comb it anymore. I mean, I never actually use a comb or anything, but now I just step out of the shower, dry it, shake it a little and it just looks perfect.
I wish I could explain it, but I can't. The saddest part is that I get so little time with the perfection. Just as it's reaching some mathematical eventuality for rightness, chop. Like a ripe tomato, which is plucked from the vine in its sublime, succulent, magnificent vegetable prime, then sliced, and put on a cheese sandwich.
In this case the cheese sandwich is the salon floor.
What I'm saying is it's a cruel life for me and my what's-on-top. This weekend is all I have to enjoy it; to have a fleeting glimpse of what might have been. Well, of what is, I suppose, for a short time. But the time might have been longer!
Still I say, don't cry for me, more than is necessary. It'll grow back.
In any event, at this point my hair looks as good as it is going to for this cutting cycle. I don't know about you, but right as my hair starts to get longer it really falls into place. Maybe the new hair is just starting to relax and fit in with all the other hairs up there, who can say. Perhaps they're about to start up a rec volleyball team.
The thing is, some people I've found look best right at the moment their haircut is over. The stylist has, well, styled it properly; it's all sitting up or waved or permed or gelled or whatever and you know that it's all downhill from there.
There's no way that person is going to keep that going for a whole six weeks or however long they wait between appointments. By the end of the first week they've decided they "don't really like that style anymore" and want something new next time. The following Wednesday they've decided a nice hat is all the cranial style they need.
Some people's hair never seems to grow at all until right when they need a haircut. I don't know how this happens. It's usually with short-haired people.
My hair, though, looks okay after the cut, but steadily increases in power week by week. Right now I'm at week 6, with an appointment a few days from now, and I don't even comb it anymore. I mean, I never actually use a comb or anything, but now I just step out of the shower, dry it, shake it a little and it just looks perfect.
I wish I could explain it, but I can't. The saddest part is that I get so little time with the perfection. Just as it's reaching some mathematical eventuality for rightness, chop. Like a ripe tomato, which is plucked from the vine in its sublime, succulent, magnificent vegetable prime, then sliced, and put on a cheese sandwich.
In this case the cheese sandwich is the salon floor.
What I'm saying is it's a cruel life for me and my what's-on-top. This weekend is all I have to enjoy it; to have a fleeting glimpse of what might have been. Well, of what is, I suppose, for a short time. But the time might have been longer!
Still I say, don't cry for me, more than is necessary. It'll grow back.
posted by artsick at
9:00 PM
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