Had a Haircut
Nothing can mess with the power of the fresh haircut. It's a feeling of empowerment, of refreshment, of total self-confidence. It's a better feeling than listening to your favorite song while finding 10 bucks in the wash and catching all the green lights on Connecticut Ave from Cleveland Park to Farragut Square. Things that would normally kill you don't even put a dent in your armor, like the scene in action movies where the main dude gets shot but it turns out he was wearing a vest. It's like getting a backrub from Jesus. You can't fuck with that kind of energy. Don't even try.
I go to this place across the street from work every few months, when it seems like every hair on my head is in some kind of adolescent "screw you dad, you're not the boss of me!" kind of rebellious phase. Henry, the guy who makes the magic happen, he's pretty good. I don't really need to tell him what to do, but we have the same conversation every fricking time anway.
Henry: so, what do you want to do with it this time?
Me: Pyro-fuckin-technics, Henry. I want my guitar to EXPLODE in my hands. Seriously, give me Sammy Hagar, or Kip Winger or something.
Henry: uh OK, so I'll just clean it up.
And then he gets to work, the whole time not shutting up about his kid, showing me pictures of his kid, describing with wild, flailing hand gestures stuff he just bought for his kidâ€¦and three and a half hours and 68 pounds of unruly hair later, I am glowing with the fresh, impenetrable energy of the New Haircut. I am renewed, restored, revitalized. I will not be deterred, denied, nor defeated. Mama said knock you out.
Yesterday was a difficult day, for numerous reasons both business and personal; if it weren't for the haircut casting its protective and nurturing aura all about me, who the hell knows how it might have turned out.