Call it karma. Call it kismet. Call it the will of God. Call it whatever you wish, but let it be known that I think I’ve developed the uncanny ability to locate every hairstylist in town with short arms. It’s an odd talent, and not something I was expecting.
One of my goals in life has always been to never comb my hair. It’s not high on my list, but it’s on the list, all the same. If it seems unreasonable, or even crazy to you, you should just stop for a minute and think about it. Wouldn’t you, too, like to never have to comb your hair again? The time savings alone would make it worthwhile. I have a feeling that once you think about it, you’ll be adding it to your own life goal list. If you keep such a list, that is.
Anyway, one of the ways to avoid combing your hair is to receive regular haircuts. Here’s the rule: If it looks unruly, walk into the nearest Super Duper Cuts and say “A number 2 on the sides. Sort of sticking up on top.” That should do the trick. There are other methods, such as hats and balding, but I won’t discuss them at the moment, except to say that I’m trying them all with varied success. Each method has it’s pros and cons.
Carefree hair is really that simple. After that, all that’s required is water and a quick brush of the fingers to set it right. Maybe a little dab of gel, when you’re feeling fancy. Five seconds tops, I promise you.
So what’s this have to do with fate and short-armed hairstylists, you ask? I’m not quite sure, except that I’ve begun noticing that Super Duper Cuts’ stylists have a tendency to have short arms, and that as I sit there getting my cheap, life-goal reaching haircut, their bellies always seem to be bumping into me and pushing me around. I can’t say I like it. My own belly isn’t the flattest in the world, but at least I try to keep it off of people when I’m working.
But then, maybe it’s just me. Maybe my arms are longer then most people’s, and it’s easier for me. Or maybe it’s just my last couple years of self-imposed isolation that has me noticing these bellies bumping up against my personal space. Maybe I realize the sadness in the fact that the only womanly touch I receive these days doesn’t spin my head, but my chair. Maybe bellies have always knocked me around and I just didn’t notice. Maybe hair stylists have always had short arms, and I just didn’t care. Maybe I’m the same old Keith I’ve always been. Maybe there’s nothing uncanny going on around here at all.
But I do have short hair this morning. I know that much.