Column 2.4 (S.#)

As a disaffected intellectual, I find it of paramount importance that I weigh in upon the greatest issues of the day, going toe to toe with the great questions that plague us as we slowly wind our way through the agonizing abyss we call life. It is in that spirit that I, with an ambivalence rivaled only by my simultaneous loathing of skin-scorching sunburn and of the oily Vietnam-esque quagmire that is sunscreen application, inform you that last Monday I had my hair cut.

Now, first of all, let me assure you that the feelings you are experiencing right now are all quite natural. Shock, anger, loss. Perhaps even arousal. Feelings not at all uncommon to my column, true, but of particular potency today. And, believe me, I understand. It was, after all, my hair that was brutally sundered like so much John McCain presidential ambition (and still the dead mass lays on the floor, staring like the remnants of a childhood pet, spawning guilt and an intense desire for air freshener). But it had to be done.

You see, for many of us, the culling of one’s hair is a spiritual matter. The hair grows, as do our sins, egos, and stomachs, and soon it begins to take on a persona all its own. I’m fond of telling my friend(s) and any other passersby too drunk to know better that, at its current rate of expansion, my hair would qualify for a congressperson and electoral voting privileges by 2010. Such things, like Vanderbilt bowl games and affordable iPhones, cannot be!

There is, of course, anger. Why did the hair have to grow? Why couldn’t this travesty have been prevented, preemptive steps taken? Would it have been so hard to maintain a semblance of consistent grooming, keeping it in check instead of letting it roam free on the savannahs of my scalp? In a word, yes. In three words, yes it would. In haiku form “Hair cut each four months/ Dylan not made of money/ Your Ad Here, Call Now.”

The effects are weird indeed. I not only look conservative, I actually want to burn food stamps and embezzle a company’s pension fund so I can buy a third yacht. No more are the days where I can feel an unbridled sense of anger at authority figures who, while I slump in front of the television with bad posture and worse productivity, want me to “get a job,” “go outside,” or “at least act like the head lice bother [me]” (they developed their own written language! I mean, who am I to judge?!).

But now is not a time for division, for strife, for second doubts. Now is a time for unity and rebuilding. The hair is cut. Some lives on to tell the tale, of course, and though the sideburns were unfortunate collateral damage, they shall return in time. It will be hard, but, after an appropriate period of mourning, we must move on.

I have been told, although I still entertain strong doubts, that there is an entire world outside of my grooming. Floods in India, violence in the Middle East, hell, I bet there’s still genocide somewhere in Africa. Anything if not consistent, amiright?

But seriously. My hair is gone. Daily, I wonder what could have been. What might have happened if I had not, finally, had my hair trimmed to its now, dare I say, radically truncated state. However, I must move on. There is so much more of me I must deal with for myself. How often should I brush my teeth? How often should I wear my pants? Where is my toothbrush? Nevermind, I found it, now where are my pants? Difficult questions. Rest assured, though, I’ll keep you posted.