Off with his hair! March 15, 2007

So, as perhaps you’ve read already, I got a little hair cut. How I would enjoy simply uploading pictures to demonstrate the event, for, as a picture is worth a thousand cliches, I could share a tens-of-thousands of word report. However, this damned blogging service (combined with my utter inability to utilize the capabilities of this MacBook) makes it nearly impossible to do so with any degree of convenience. Instead, i will have to share the debacle, to the best of my ability, in words, at least until i figure out how to upload pictures expediently.

First it should be noted that, to describe this as a mere haircut is far more than a slight understatement. It is one thing to cut one’s hairs, it is a far different thing to almost nearly remove those hairs altogether. And this, of course, is precisely what occured.

It is a decision that was made not entirely out of the blue, after all, several of my closest friends have probably heard me utter (usually in a more ennebreated state) my moderate desires to rid myself of the annoyance of such a beautiful full head of (most likely dirty) hair, and shave it once and for all. However, after much dissuasion from various friends and family (among the list of most widely touted reasons NOT to undergo serious hair reduction include appearing as though i were the emmaciated victim of some terrible genocide or ethnic strife, how the cards and letters wishing me well during my chemotherapy would tire me surprisingly quickly, and, most persuasively, that the reflection by my head of the headlights of oncoming vehicles would place me in dire danger, as undoubtedly i would blind the fast approaching driver and face an ugly, if not mortal, fate), I opted to abandon these idyll fantasies and celebrate the sheer joy known only by those in their waning youth of even being able to produce and sport a full head of hair. The hair, i decided, was here to stay.

Joining those in the chorus of the thankful for my unprecedented prudent decision was my ravishing and brilliant girlfriend, Cassandra. She implored me, in fact, upon hearing that my hair had grown quite long as of late, to not simply abandon my dreams of shaving my hair, but those of even simply cutting it at all. She said she was rather curious as to how i would appear with long hair. And so, as any good, loving boyfriend ought do, i caved. I conceded to her request and valiantly, bravely continued my defiance of traditional and prudent conventions of appearance by allowing it to grow even further.

After not much time, the everyday yielding to her demands, of course, became exhausting. My hair was no longer merely curly and overflowing, an undoubted sign of youthful exhuberance and Samsonian vitality–it was beyond this stage, it was much like high school, that is, inextricably awkward. For, it was long enough to grace my face and eyes with its presence at the most inconvenient of times, while simultaneously short enough to thwart my various attempts at resisting its reign of terror (can i admit, i was honestly tempted to write ‘reign of hairer’, but don’t worry, i sincerely thought better of it) in its absolute refusal to remain bound by a hair tie. It did not take much time for me to grow tired of this nuissance, and even less to earnestly resent it. If only I could cut these wretched locks, I’d often think to myself.

Finally, as my highly anticipated trip quickly approached, the beginings of a very curious thought made its way into my as of yet still hairful head. As soon as i arrive in amsterdam, and my dearest beholds my long, obnoxious locks, I will berid myself of them…and i will be liberated, once and for all, although, i will likely have to cut the hair soon upon my rearrival in the states…that is, unless, of course, i cut my hair to a length which will not require cutting after two months…of course, that would require me to…no…oh yes…but what about the neglected/emaciated look? and the cancer? and the almost certain car accident that would ensue…well, it dawned on me, of course, i will have the advantage of being in limited contact with people (at least people who know me) for the next two months, and my girlfriend will getover dating an immaciated, recently recovered cancer patient, not to mention i will, in all probability, not set foot in an automobile while europing about…my goodness…yes my goodness…you know what that means…precisely…i’m shaving my head!! I’m shaving my head!!…but what if people mistake you for a neo-nazi??…well, i’ll just have to curtail my unusually antisemetic sense of humor for a month until my hair grows back…good call…hey, you made it…yeah i guess i did, oh and on an aside, do you find it at all curious, unusual, or potentially troublesome that i have carried on a conversation of this length with myself, you know, as though a crazy person might do…no, not at all, jeffrey…jeffrey, who’s–?

And so, I decided that on the second day of my stay, i would, resovedly, shave my hair. To the scalp.

When I informed my delightful companion of my plans she was not nearly as thrilled as I, so to speak. So of course, neogotiations set in, she conceding to the clear fact that I was in dire need of a haircut, but nevertheless deftly advocating on behalf of maintaining three inches, or at least, some semblance of hair. I, however, steadfastly stood by my previous resolution, bowing to none of her demands–i mean, pleas–instead opting to concede on the matter of time. We would wait until the weekend to shave it, so at the bare minimum she could enjoy the overgratuity of my long hair. This deadline, however, was set back come Sunday, when she “remembered” that we were to meet with her classmates for afterclass drinks on wednesday, so she would rather they see me all ‘haired up’ for their first impression of me. Despite my understandable disappointment and obstinence, I eventually met her demands. Thursday, of course, saw no shaving, nor did Friday. By Saturday I was considerably perturbed by my persistent quantity of hair. I had had enough. Today was the day my hair would meet its doom.

Cassie begrudgingly consented to my decision, and to the unenviable duty of being the primary remover of the majority of my unwanted follicles. Luckily, her friend and dormmate, Ann Marie, agreed to document the whole ordeal with a recently purchased camera. Again, I regret to report that as of yet, I am unable to present to you these shocking pictures at this current forum, and I pledge to offer them to you as testament to its occurence as soon as is conveninient for myself. In any event, things were going smoothly, as far as I was concerned, until Ann Marie, said with a friendly german accent befitting of her origin: “Oooohh, zat looks soo Svedish!” To which, unsurprisingly, Cassie wholeheartedly assented. And that was as far as my haircut progressed that night. Not to mention that I was tired, and passed out before any more cutting could occur, but that is a different aspect of the story which I wish, for reasons of my own, not to divulge at the current moment. Nevertheless on the Ann Marie and Cassie’s insistence, I lived with an ameliorated, albeit not wholly satisfying, state of affairs regarding the problem of my hair.

Yet again, two days passed, and i was insistent with Cassie. I stood firm. I told her “We need to talk,” and, looking her squarely in the eyes, I declared: “The future, is now.” To which she triumphantly proclaimed: “Off with his hair!”

She cut the remaining loose (read: split) ends, and I went to the bathroom, lathered my head with shaving cream, and took the Mach 3 to my skull. Bit by bit, the remaining follicles were put back in their place–in my brains. And i was complete again. Cassie gave me the look over and, smiling, reported: “It looks good, it looks great, you’re surprisingly handsome” (I thought, yes, i do have a rather resilient physique, do i not?) and then, tenderly, whispered “but you’ve missed a spot. Oh, and another…and another! Gosh, your head looks like a poorly plowed cornfield…”

She kindly amended the spotty shavework, and the rest is history. The hair is gone. I’m rather bald.

Now some initial reactions to the baldness…not quite what I had anticipated, really. I believed that my head would be as smooth as a glass marble (and as shiny too). But it was not. It felt far more like subtle sandpaper, that black stuff you use right at the end. Furthermore, my hair line is still quite visible. This, instead of disappointing, I found to be rather invigorating. Not quite as invigorating: shaving one’s head does not stop, or slow down, the great downpouring of the dandruff epidemic. I do not know what inspired such a belief in me, but I was nonetheless shocked by the admirable persistence of this unsavorable condition.

I should also add here, that I chose to keep the beard. Now, initially one might expect this to radically alter the geography of the hair on my head, rendering my head the site of a great confusion, in which my hair’s migration can be explained by a sudden and massive loss of direction on the part of my hair. However, I would argue quite the opposite. Instead of a destabilizing, confusing effect on my facial topography, the beard actually balances my face, preemptively assuaging temptations to mistake me for a famine survivor or cancer patient, and likewise reducing glare from the headlights of oncoming vehicles.

Already the hair is growing back, which, regretably I knew was an inevitable occurence. Still, it is rather bizarre to have no hair on one’s head. Likewise, it is cold. I now wear my hat constantly, which, taking the advice of one of my readers, I crafted to say “Holla” instead of “Holland”. In fact, I was even complimented on my blaze-orange winter cap. And that, my friends, that is why i like this country–whereas in america, people stared at me funny, thinking I was an unfashionable, even unsightly buffoon walking about in my gaudy orange cap–here, here in this most liberal of Western European countries, people think that my orange hat is not only clever, but ‘where it’s at’. Now, if only these people knew what laid beneath the hat–that is, a sea of vulturous, blood thirsty hair follicles, licking their chops, plotting to reemerge in all their wrath and fury.