Among the many things Teddy Roosevelt and I have in common is our mutual phobia of haircuts.
I’ve never - ever - had a haircut that I liked when I left the salon. I usually like a haircut less once I’ve gotten it home where I can get a look at it. I sustain a kind of low-grade haircut hate for the next few weeks and then, from nowhere, I’ll get a three week period of terrific hairdays - like the eye of the cowlick. From there it is a pretty steady decline into shaggy and frizzy and so back to the salon to take my medicine.
I always assumed it was like this for everyone until I met Tim, who gets a haircut every two or three weeks. Tim is happiest with his haircut at the salon the very moment after it is shorn and - like a car driven off the lot - it almost immediately declines in value as soon as he leaves. Every millimeter of growth kills his perfect head of hair a little bit more.
Me, I have to come home and have Chiara perform haircut triage, snipping and trimming the peculiar topography, trying to salvage what we can from the debacle.
Still, I think Tim denies himself something. I think he denies his hair its natural life cycle. A haircut begins as a tight laced, buttoned down, wide-eyed kid and becomes, over time, a confident individual. It then, inevitably, goes too far off the deep end and ends up a crazy mountain man.
It’s a weird character arc, I admit.
I have only once had the courage to go beyond this third stage and discover what lies beyond the shag. It was a wild ride, but I wouldn’t go back (much like Burning Man).
Anyway, it’s a long, indulgent read for one man’s haircut neuroses. I promise the next time I compare myself to Teddy Roosevelt, I’ll just turn in a short paragraph about our endearing love of the pince-nez.
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