Shaving my head earlier tonight, I was reminded of my impulsive ways and willful disposition. The reasons were piling up: It rustled, the warmth was annoying the hell out of me, it was looking thin along the front, and because I could. I picked up the trimmer and it went. One long buzz after another. The numbness of exposed scalp as familiar as any other state of hair being after years impulsiveness and exclaiming ‘Fuck You, Summer!’
Hair was once of great concern. It was a decade ago, now. Like clockwork, I drove to the barbershop in the caramel Oldsmobile and its faux fur-lined interior. Caballeros was a barbershop you could walk into with the confidence that it would be a good haircut regardless of whose chair was up. Like clockwork, after school, one ten dollar haircut. Always even, smooth, slick. Every other Friday. Girls waited around in the Carl’s Jr. across the street while their boys waited in line to get a fade. I never waited around for a salon or nail appointment, I’ll tell you that. The reason, of course, is it wasn’t like the 20 minutes from waiting in the chair to dusting off the stray hairs and leaving a two dollar tip. It was a process. The cost of beauty was above the male mind. Still, an effort had to be made to look good.
I don’t even remember when I stopped. It must mean that the cessation of giving a shit was gradual. A few days here, a week there, an acceptance of hair long enough to take hold of on sweaty days. Then, more gradually, the taking hold of an impulsive nature long kept at bay by notions of civility and courtesy to others. Hair today, bald tomorrow. Naturally, a certain laziness has also been at play.
The shaving left me more streamlined. It fits with my recent animalistic visions. Tendons, active muscles. I could see rifts and valleys in the comparatively fair skin of my scalp. The sensation of distinguishing the frontal from the parietal from the temporal with the tips of my fingers was like mapping a great wall hidden beneath the layers. Scars from long distant tumbles and skull thuds shone brightly. I remembered head butts and blood streaming down my face. The door wide open and naked as an ape, I growled and I huffed. I slapped on the lotion usually reserved for the odd shave of my cheeks and neck. It felt like dancing around the fire. I stepped out into the cooler air of the living room. Knees up and down, ahoo ahoo, singing to the moon. My story is on my head.