A few years ago I became contentedly happy with my haircut. It was short, angular, and very vaguely contemporary. I decided that it was MY haircut, it would be my trademark haircut, the one that the world would know me by, like Morrissey’s quiff or Quentin Crisp’s frizzy meringue. I didn’t even have to pay for it, I just asked my girlfriend to give me a number four all over every three months and few trims inbetween. It was so liberating to think that I didn’t ever have to worry about my hair again. I could, instead, concentrate on matters of more import.
Then, without any warning, I became gripped by dissatisfaction. That which had once seemed a liberation was now a prison. I couldn’t shake the feeling that my haircut had become a curse. Only slowly did it dawn on me that the door to my cell was actually open and that all of the guards had gone home. I could grow my hair!
The ensuing growth has been fascinating to observe. It has made me realise that short hair is inherently mediocre and that, although long hair can look really bad, short hair can never reach its heights. The trouble is, where do I stop? I am getting married in August and the photos from that event will accompany me until I die: what if I look entirely awful?!
See also: Wikipedia on Long Hair
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