Sunday, May. 11, 2003 - 11:09 p.m.

Coiffure

About my coiffure: I haven’t had a haircut in a long time. Mostly to save money. For lack of bread, like the Grateful Dead. And then I spent that money, and more, on concerts. So, over the past several months, my head has gone from looking like Pierce Brosnan to Harry Potter, to Donnie Darko to its present Beatlesque mop, and soon to be a Wham!-era George Michael. I’ve eventually got to decide whether I’m cutting it or not.

My sister would say let it grow. Granted, it looks good long (and hides my Prince Charles ears), but brushing it every day is a lot of work I can’t say I miss waking up in the morning with my hair all twisted around my neck like a noose. It uses up a lot of shampoo. I tried giving up shampoo for a year, and all I got was a lot of grease. If I looked like a Lord of the Rings character again, it would attract chix who are into that image. But would I want someone like that in my life? Two years ago, my short hair saved me from what would have been a horrible relationship. Christian Stripper Revolutionary would have been interested in me if I had still had long hair, and then she would have treated me way worse than the Princess of Egalitaria ever did.

I can’t think of anything I really need short hair for right now, but you never know when you might need to look respectable on short notice, and you can’t take it on and off like at hat. (Hmm…maybe a wig.) A buzz is definitely the lowest maintenance cut. I was disappointed when I shaved my head bald one summer and discovered that it only made the top of my head a little cooler, and the rest of me was suffering from the heat as much as ever. You wanna beat the heat? Get an air conditioner.

I originally grew it out in hopes of looking like David Coverdale of Whitesnake. I wanted a romantic, rebellious image, primarily for myself. That, plus a badge of membership in the very superficial identity of heavy metal fan. I achieved all that, and my hair served me well for many years as a crutch for my hobbled self-esteem. And in Eugene, where it’s weird not to have fuscia dreadlocks, it’s almost rebellious to look normal. I’m really into looking unremarkable and being invisible. And being called “sir” for a change. It appeals to my plain-living Amish aesthetic.

In my effort to milk my vasectomy for every joke possible, I came up with the following analogy: Just like in the end of Titanic, I jettisoned the family jewels.

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