It’s a love-hate relationship. I love to have my hair long. How long? Not exactly sure, I’ll let you know when it reaches my ankles. The other half of this relationship? My mother hates it, my father hates it, my wife hates it, my closest friends hate it, just about everybody on Earth hates it.
Who asked them anyway? Wasn’t me.
I’ve wanted long hair ALL of my life. Since I was so young I could stand on the backseat of my parent’s monster station wagon and get closer to the radio to hear The Beatles, I’ve wanted it.
A few years later, I risked my very life for it. We lived down the street from a barbershop; my mother gave me and my brother money and sent us to get haircuts. Instead of doing that, I talked both of us into spending the money on a model airplane kit in the window of the shop next door to it.
And I actually went home. That’s how much I’ve wanted it.
Over the years, I’ve grown it (yay for me), cut it (yay for them), grown it, cut it, grown it, cut it, grew a mullet and lost a mullet. I’ve put some barbers out of business and helped others put their kids through college.
Well, just the other day it came to me. Call it an epiphany, even. I’m 54, it’s about time I settled down. Brought some stability into my life; slowed this never-ending ebb and flow, don’t you know. Thought of this right in the middle of watching “Legends of the Fall” for the 73rd time:
If it’s good enough for Brad Pitt, it’s good enough for me.