Scalped

On the 31st of March in the year 1999, I went to a salon in Portland, Oregon, USA, by the name of Sideburns on Burnside. With digital camera in hand, I met the man who would do the deed: Colby. He wielded his weapons like a skilled and most honorable Klingon as a glaze crossed over his eyes. I could tell that he was calculating his attack as a small gleam of drool slide down his chin. "Do you want to keep it," he asked. I answered in the affirmative and he swiftly gratified his desire and proceeded to sever my ponytail.

His work continued and he trimmed my head of [slightly thinning] hair to a mere inch or two at its longest. Using nothing but clippers and a keen eye for the hair-related hunt, Colby finished his work in short order.

I now must consider myself among the ranks of someone who looks (as certain people's reactions reveal) older, better, not like myself, hard to get used to, like it was about time to get this cut, and different. Overall, I'm really happy with the do. Prior to my senior of high school, my hair never got longer than covering my ears. My reaction to all of this was casual at its most extreme. All in all, I couldn't feel more (don't say anything) normal.

From long-haired hippy to clean cut, goatee-growning guy, I'm pretty much ready for getting used to a world where the people who meet me may never know that I once had hair past my shoulders.

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