Mommy Hates When I Get Nerdy Haircuts, But I Told The Lady, "I'm Getting Old. Do What You Want"

Sometimes I think I look just like my Grandpa Spence. It might be the ears or the hair. I've never quite figured it out.
Either way, I went to get the hairs clipped for the holidays by a new lady. I told her I like to look like Kramer from Seinfeld and gave her a history of having ass-length hair, going Buddha-shaved, and lately being a crossbreed of a seagull, punk, and Rod Stewart.

She nipped, and clipped, and putzed, and spritzed, making me feel like the Lion being pampered in the Wizard of Oz. Then she put all this gunk in my hair and slicked it back to give me a helmut head. I did grocery shopping, came home, made dinner, then looked in the mirror. "Hi, Pee Wee Herman. Nice to meet you."

I'm sure after I shower and attempt to stye it myself it will come out differently.  It sort of stinks getting old because the variety of hair choices seems to fade away and you don't want to usurp the youth's culture of funky new hairdos: stripes in the head, hipster beards, strange electric colors. Rather, you want to age gracefully.

The lady edged me up, however, like Abu, Lossine, and Chitunga get when they go to the barber. I thought, "Hmmm. How does she know about their persnickety attention to straight lines and angles?"

Then she clipped my ears, eyebrows and nose hairs and I thought, "It's in your imagination, Crandall. You're just old. She's doing the best to make you not so old."

And when I wash the product out of my hair in the a.m., I'll try to update the post to see what sort of mess I can make of her hard work.

(and this post ends with me singing from the musical Hair as I do after a haircut, nostalgic for the days when I had long locks and was less conscious of having to be a professional. Adulthood sucks).