Quarantine Cut

Right off the top of my head, I want to discuss a matter that is near and dear to me; my hair. Although bald is now in fashion, I consider myself blessed that a renewable follicular resource exists atop my dome.

However, escalation always proceeds revolution and my hair always begins to revolt moments after its peak performance, much like the cover curse of Sports Illustrated. Several days ago, I wrote an article about how happy my hair was making me. That happiness was not shared by my wife Lynn who viewed my elation with the raised eyebrow of spousal suspicion

My hair was getting more and more complicated by the moment until it had finally escalated to a point of out and out insubordination which Lynn correctly identified as sloppy disrespect.

Lynn prefers a simple, clean approach to style so she made it clear to me that I needed her help. I suggested that perhaps an insane asylum haircut wouldn't help my staggering self-image. She assured me while unpacking her formidable electric shaver that we could proceed with finesse rather than with desperate, absurd hilarity.

Next thing I knew, I heard the familar buzzing and felt the pull. I watched great clumps of my hair fall to the kitchen floor. Looking at the clumps, I wondered how much hair would be needed to fill a pillow, it seems like such a waste to see the severed follicles down for the count and submissively awaiting the sweep of the broom.

The buzzing continued, full of purpose, precision and pleasantry. I kept waiting for the "Oops" moment with the ensuing shrieks of laughter. The forlorn clumps on the floor continued to grow until Lynn backed away, rubbed the top of my head and said "finished".

It didn't take long.

She helped me off the chair, making sure that I didn't step into my shorn gray and drag the stuff all over the goddamned house.

"You look so much better", she assured me with that wonderful happy wife, happy life lilt to her voice. Let's face it, we all like to admire our work when we're finished with it, especially if it turned out the way we imagined it would, which in my case is a rarity.

She sent me into the bathroom to grab a look in the mirror.

I followed her direction. When I glanced in the mirror, it was obvious that the rebellion was over. Although I've seen the effects of surrender many times before, I'm still surprised at the clarity of the outcome.

There I was again with a haircut very similar to the cut I had in my high school graduation picture, very similar to the one I got from Henry the Barber when I sat in his chair for the first time in the days before style

It took a startling moment in the glass but I had to admit that Lynn did a good job.

She suggested that we describe the new style as a "quarantine" rather than "insane asylum".

Good and accurate suggestion. 

Later that day, we heard on the radio that Springsteen had also experienced a quarantine cut at the hands of his wife, so I figured I was in good company.

I jumped into the shower. When I emerged,my hair was ready to go without complicated combing, brushing, drying and or glooping. How simple life can be.

How clean

How quarantine.