An amateur home haircut only really counts as such when something goes wrong, right? I grew up with short hair, and though every so often I attempt to grow it longer, my hair grows up and out, never long. 70s big, at best/worst.
In times of stress, I enjoy getting a haircut. Something about sitting in that chair and handing over responsibility for even a short time is freeing for me. (I found that thought -- but traveling on a plane with the pilot in control, I can't be blamed -- in a novel I first read over 40 years ago and recognized my barber chair version about 30 years ago. Peter Gent's North Dallas 40, a worthy read about football and integrity, though perhaps not in obvious ways.)
Now, in this time of stress, I am cutting my own hair. Not the same relief, not the same release. (Something, because I did want that hair cut, but not what I hoped.) So you can imagine that after trimming my hair successfully I might still chase that feeling of relief by cutting a bit more. And I have done so. Felt good too. Snipped a little more and a little more.
Perhaps, I should have stopped sooner, but I don't know. I don't mind short hair. I might agree about the uneven edges though.
Sunday, April 26, 2020
Saturday, April 11, 2020
1978: Pre-Dive / Nostalgia
Summer 1978:
My mom called me Fearless Fly with this state-of-the-art prescription mask on my face.
I was getting ready for my first open-water dive, earning my C-card, the next day up on the Sonoma County coast.
Note how tan my hands and forearms are. I was spending hours in the pool every day.
