Nerve Endings Firing Away

It was time again to shear my overgrown locks and I guess, it is time I have to stop dreaming about sporting a Bon Jovi look because my hair definitely doesn’t support me on that one. Before you laugh your head off at this impossible dream, be fully aware that God was generous enough to bless me with a bounty of hair. Mom claims that I was born with hair covering my ears. The doctors, for an instant must have definitely contemplated a genealogy check to look for any wolf or bear linkages. Amongst all the things that I worry about in my life, the least I have to worry about is the existence of a head full of hair although an ex-classmate, with her hands through my hair, once had questioned my hairy future during an innocently asexual moment.

But I choose to ignore her until the clear signs of a receding hairline were obvious during a rare moment of self-adoration. Panic set in and only when convincing arguments by my peers that this is a perfectly masculine thing to experience; after all my genes favored me. But I do not trust my genes completely because I seem to miraculously pick and choose the worst traits from my ancestors. Who knows? I just might have had a bald distant forefather. Trust him to pass on his bald palate to me. Yogu is going to kill me for thinking of this non-existential problem.

Anyways, why the fetish for harping about my hair today? Because although I hate the thought of subjecting myself to the horrendous experience of what is commonly known as having a haircut, life has its own definitions of inevitability. Great Clips (nothing great about them though) has this horrid database system. They somehow never have me on their records and no matter how many times I visit them, its always the first time for them. Not only they love butchering my name in at least 20 different accents, but they also love messing with my prized hair. Believe me, the first load of illegal immigrants always land at this particular shop.

This time it was Yell-ena Butcherkova, an East European chick, who could only understand the alphabet P when I said “P for Poland”. I think it took me longer to update my records than to endure the actual haircut. I have usually simple instructions on cutting my hair and even a moron wouldn’t be confused but Ms.Butcherkova was maha-confused. When she was desperately trying to hold my head still, I was straining to escape her demonic shears. Somehow, much to the relief of both of us, we got through the horrid experience. I never had prayed this hard in the recent past. But at least I am spared for at least 2 more months until I have return yet again to update my records. Next time, I am sure it is going to be “P for Peking”.