Locks of love

I haven’t paid for a haircut in over 5 ½ years. The last actual professional haircut I received was in June of 2001, just before Steve Carroll’s wedding. I was actually taking a Nazirite vow for the summer, but started it off clean since I was standing in the wedding. Over these past five plus years, there have been three different occasions where I have simply let my hair grow for ten to eleven months at a time. The rest of the time I’ve had various amateurs take clippers and just buzz it down.

Why? Well, it’s not just to save a dime, although even a conservative estimate would put my savings at hundreds of dollars by this time. There’s also the matter of comfort: I moved away from my barber of several years (the Clipper Ship) right about that time, and haven’t been able to motivate myself to hunt for a suitable replacement. And one should never overlook the entertainment value of an amateur haircut.

The first time was after one of my ten month hiatuses from cutting my hair. I let two of the teens from my church sculpt it into a fantastic mullet, complete with racing stripes, for one day. I’ve never felt so alive as I did walking around with that on my head. A couple years later, after another ten month grow-out, I actually made cutting my hair the teen group program for the week. It did not disappoint.

Over the past year or so I’ve settled into a pattern of having my sister cut my hair. I only see her every couple months at irregular intervals, but whenever I’m going to see her is when it’s time for a haircut. It takes all the subjective thinking out of the equation: just pack the clippers whenever I’m going where she’ll be.

This past week in North Carolina was one of those times. We were at my grandmother’s house, and she is very particular about her housekeeping, so there was no way we were dropping my hair inside. Luckily it was a nice enough day, so I took off my shirt and went out into the backyard. Granny told me not to worry about the hair in the yard, since the birds used to take Granddad’s hair for their nests when she would trim his hair out there. But Granny’s yard is as immaculate as her house. And I didn’t want to get hair on myself, either. So I grabbed a garbage can and put my head over it and Shannon began cutting my hair in our usual fashion.

A couple minutes later there was a knock on the back door and I heard Granny’s muffled voice from inside,

“You don’t need that garbage can. The birds will take your hair. They like it for their nests.”

I assured her that we were alright and continued on as we were. A moment later, Shannon saw what appeared to be a white ball falling off the roof. In actuality, it had fallen from a much greater height, and wasn’t exactly a ball.

As I felt the sticky splat on my bare back, all I could do was concede: you win, birds. I’ll leave my hair for your nest.