(Here he is about to shoot lightning out of his eyes)
He was not the only one who saw the business end of snippers and shears. I as well had some follicular issues to tend to. I am never a fan of getting my hair cut. When I see a barber I am a prisoner of a chair most comfortable, but instead of being able to allow my mind to just dissolve into contemplative thought, I am forced to partake in neighbourly chit-chat with the wielder of scissors. For that reason, I am fine with just letting my hair grow to the point where it was of similar condition to my cat... mats. A few new ones each day.
I guess ordinary folk would call these messy balls of hindered hair 'knots' or 'tangles', but that seemed too refined for a recluse such as myself. I was jealous of my cat's prowess, so, out of desire to imitate and impress him, I call them mats. Each morning the brush held court with my hair, and each morning the battle would yield a mini handful of fallen strands, separated for eternity from their comrades.
Wednesday of last week was the day I took the plunge, which was one day after my cat. I should not complain too much about the experience, because my destroyer of hair is a very skilled and friendly lady who doesn't spend all of her time annoying me with stupid and trivial facts about her nephew that I care not for. She rocks, and so did the cut that she left me with.
The problem that arose from all of this was something that I had long suspected and thought about, but was never brought completely to the forefront. My forehead is grandiose. Consider it ultra nationalistic, wanting to share my head with none other than itself. My hair, on the other hand, is passive to a fault (except on humid days where it decides that it will do its own thing, no matter how hard you try to dissuade it). Faced with any confrontation, it will backdown for the sake of peace.
I really do admire its gentle nature, but after getting my hair cut I am able to see just how much its pacifism has cost me. My forehead is getting huge, conquering lands that were once lush with hair, clear-cutting indiscriminately and felling all that gets in its way. Perhaps I should be happy that I made it this far into life before I became betrayed by my hair. Maybe I should just begin shaving my head so that nobody notices that there is an uneven distribution of hair across my dome (the way it's going, I could see myself pulling off a sweet comb-over within ten years).
I believe that the best option to embrace is to allow my departing hair be the starter's pistol for a mid-life crisis. I know that technically I am not halfway towards the estimated end of my life. In Canada, apparently men are expected to fall dead just shy of their 80th birthday. However, I have some privileged information that Health Canada, or whoever comes up with those numbers, does not. I know exactly what I eat as well as my physical condition. Based on a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey approach to calculations, I figured I am on borrowed time. The good news? This means that my mid life crisis is long over-due.
A big option staring me in the face right now is to get myself a motorcycle and ride it like nothing else. This is a possible outlet that could work well, as my wife's family is a biker family. I would finally no longer be the outcast who prefers four wheels and crumple zones surrounding me as I travel. However, I am shit on bikes. If there is an opportunity for me to fall off one, I never miss it. This has been something that I was skilled at from a young age and have refined more and more as life has gone by. So, bikes are out of the question.
Another option that I have seen people do is to get frosted tips in their hair and have it spiky. Do you remember frosted tips? I sure do, and I think that one of the things that goes along with the mid-life crisis is to grab onto something that you, at one point in time or another, thought cool. Or, you could go the route of adapting to what you see in current music videos, which is why I have witnessed a number of middle aged men over the past few years sporting a faux hawk. Because of the war of attrition being fought by my forehead, expressions of youth through hair alone is out of the question.
I guess there are other options that float around for the middle aged to explore when hitting their crisis. I could get a jet boat, perhaps. I have heard that trying to find a younger mate is a hobby as well, but I am happiest when I am with the one I already have. Technically she is younger than me, anyways. Nine months, to be exact. Recreational drugs are a common outlet, but I know I would just end up making more of a fool of myself than normal if I went that route.
The only safe and reasonable option for me would be to emulate what was 'cool' when I was in grade eight. I was not able to pull it off then, but I know that with the wealth of worldly knowledge I have gained since, I have a better than average chance of success. This means I need to track down some hyper-colour shirts, some button-fly jeans, and style my hair like I am Brandon from 90210. I know that I have already mentioned that I will fail in hair styling attempts, but this is an 'all in' sort of maneuver. I think having a fanny pack with neon yellow and pink will go well to enhance the style. Bring out the C & C Music Factory soundtrack, it is time to get on with my mid-life crisis!
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