I got my pretty hair cut yesterday, or I got my hair pretty cut. Works either way. My Darling B says when my hair gets long it’s very pretty in a masculine way. I don’t know why she felt the need to add that past part. Maybe I’m a lot more insecure that I think I am.

Whatever. I finally got my hair cut after letting it grow for three months. I could almost ponytail it in the back, and the front kept getting in my eyes, so yesterday afternoon I took some time off from work, marched myself down to the barber shop in the Hilldale Mall and took a seat in front of a gal who could wield an electric clipper with the precision as well as the finality of a samurai lopping off the head of an enemy with a razor-sharp katana.

I was stunned at how much hair she cut off. Even a little alarmed at first. No barber has let me keep my glasses on while cutting my hair and my eyesight has dwindled to the point that it’s pointless to watch what they’re doing in the mirror to see how the haircut’s progressing. I just have to trust them. But I can see how much hair is falling to the floor and onto the cape that’s wrapped around me, and on this occasion it looked like enough to make wigs for the entire cast of La Cage Aus Folles. When she was done and put my glasses back on my nose, though, I could see it looked just fine. Like my hair before I went all Josey Wales for the winter.

I didn’t let her touch the hair on my chinny-chin-chin, though. It’s just getting long enough to stroke thoughtfully. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to stroke my beard. I’m keeping that.