It's happening. My hair is getting very long. It looks awful. And yet, I just can't bring myself to get it cut.
Something about having huge, sloppy hair that makes me feel like there is still time on the meter of my life.
Adam, my recognized-by-the-state-of-California-Domestic-Partner, has a look in his eye that telegraphs, "Don't you think I find you ugly enough already after thirteen years?"
Robyn, a lovely woman I work with who is practically blind--I am not kidding--said to me today, "You look so sexy with that hair."
There is major bozo action happening above the ears. My hair grows out, not down. Yet still, I can't seem to hack it off.
Will I become one of those insane people who never cuts his nails and ends up with those ghastly curled things sticking off the ends of his fingers?
Will I swallow one of those cleansing ropes and pull it out of my ass?
I hope not.
For now, I think I will let this mop get wild. It's winter. I can always wear a hat.
I can't be put in prison for unruly locks.
For some reason, I need to let it fly.