Haircutting
For the first eighteen years of my life, I had a salad-bowl haircut. Worried about kids teasing me at school, I would explain this to my father. His response: to take portions of my bangs and cut them an inch or two higher so that my head would look like a fucked up city skyline. In a couple of weeks, the hair would grow straight across the eyebrows, and kids would make fun of me again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
But ever since I’ve returned from Asia, I have yet to get a haircut. Longer hair is fine in Hong Kong and Tokyo, because it’s cool to look like the a Final Fantasy character or explodey orange jumpsuit guy from Dragonball Z. Here notsomuch, but a mixture of laziness and apathy and hairstylist conveniently breaking their ankles have prevented me from going to a stylist.
To surprising results. My mom, of course, loves the hair.
Mom: You look like you came back from Hong Kong.
Ernie: Mom, I did come back from Hong Kong.
Mom: But it looks like you live there. I like the hair, makes you look SMART.
I love how my mom uses the word “smart” the way others use the word “handsome.”
My homosexual friends think otherwise, however.
Ernie: Hey guys, how-
Friend: No. You need a haircut. You’d look cuter with the hair short.
Ernie: Seriously? My friends and co-workers like it, though.
Friend: Where do your friends live? Where do YOU live, for that matter?
Ernie:The Mission.
Friend: EXACTLY. Girls in the Mission all look like Velma from Scooby Doo. Fuck, the boys do, too.
Okay, that last line was slightly embellished. That being said, I’m in a dilemma. Keeping the hair long, while popular, gives me flashbacks to the fifth grade and most likely is a contributing factor to me not getting laid pursuing a healthy relationship. On the flip side, it makes me look “smart” and only have to change my entire wardrobe to properly fit into my neighborhood. What to do?

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