For a long time it was something of a personal quest for my father to try to convince me to grow my hair out. Ever since the day I stunned my high school classmates by clipping my hair to a 3/8″ buzz, my father made sure every serious conversation included a reminder of how I was becoming a Real Adult now and how Real Adults ought to have respectable haircuts. Every life event was followed with a suggestion to grow my hair out: acceptance into college, getting a job at the hospital, getting a car of my own, moving off campus, serving as a groomsman in a wedding, etc. etc. etc.
I ignored his constant needling for almost six years. I rejected the implication that I should somehow rejoin my proper place among the swelling masses of nondescript nerdy Asian men with perfectly straight jet black hair parted to the side; and the buzz cut, besides being incredibly Punk Rock (and an outward display of my misanthropy and disdain for social norms in general) was also incredibly easy to manage, freeing me from ever worrying about what my hair looked like.
So for a variety of reasons, some of which don’t seem entirely clear to me now, I decided I would give growing out my hair “a try” early in 2003. By mid summer daily positive reinforcment from women along with my interests taking a sharp turn towards the melodramatic (thanks to the addition of several excessively WB-like plotlines to the script my life) led me to give up any pretense of this being a temporary gesture. My parents were both supremely pleased. By growing my hair, I had shown the world I was fully ready to take up the mantle of adulthood. What they had failed to specify, however, was a stopping point.
After my last Real Haircut sometime in August, I’ve let my hair grow pretty much uninterruptedly for the last five months. I’ve come to the point where I wear caps and beanies and bandanas nearly every day now in order to keep my hair from obscuring my face. Girls still compliment it. I’m starting to wonder if that’s just part of some major conspiracy to trick me into looking like Cousin It.
My parents grow increasingly nervous, probably wondering if I’ve started recreationally abusing narcotics. My father reminds me now that although my hair is commendably mature, even Adults need to visit the barber every now and then. Recently, I’ve picked up my old clippers and imagined running the buzzing razor through my hair, mowing away my respectability and adulthood, sweeping it into a little pile and throwing it out with the rest of the garbage.
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