I still look at the above picture and ask myself just what
in the fuck happened to me on Saturday night.
The answer keeps coming back, I have not fucking clue, but it must have
been one hell of a night for my hair to be looking the way it did. Either I got stuck in some type of wind
tunnel or vortex, tried sniffing model airplane glue for the first time, or
just slept on it wrong with my CPAP machine I don’t think it really
matters. Looking at that ridiculousness
leads to one question and one question only “Just what the fuck is going on
with my hair in the first place.”
It’s not the first time I have had issues with longer hair
and it doing whatever the hell it wanted to do.
This takes me back to the time the rooster showed its ugly head. Literally picture the same picture with no
facial hair, and instead of the hair sticking out to the right, it was all
standing straight up. Now picture with
each step I took the damn hair flapping back in forth like a rooster getting
ready to cock-a-doodle-do. The vision is
not very pleasant is it? Well the night
wasn’t either. This is honest to god one
of Mom Carol’s favorite stories. It was
the only night of the entire summer all three of her boys went to bed before 11
p.m. and she will be damned if my friends don’t carry on a party without
us. It was true. All three of the brother’s b did go to bed
that night early. It is also true the
boys continued to party in the wee hours of the night. After all we were 17, and young, lived in a
cornfield so what else was there to do other than drink copious amounts of
Busch and Miller Lite? Absolutely
nothing that is what. I don’t fault the
boys for partying. Why would I. Was I angry as hell when Mom Carol woke me at
3 or 4 a.m. and told me to go through out all my friends, yes, yes I was very
angry.
Of course the conversation with Mom Carol started off like
every other conversation with her during those days “Who are all the god damned
whores in her basement.” You back then
it didn’t matter if my Mom knew your name or not. It didn’t matter if you were a whore or
not. What mattered if you were in her
basement and you woke her up because of noise, every chic became a god damned
WHORE. I can’t make this shit up. However, unlike most nights when this
happened (and yes it happened pretty much every weekend of my high school life)
instead of Mom Carol walking down in her night gown and it was a night gown not
a teddy as one of my best friends likes to say, and only upon arriving at the
bottom of the stairs and then closing her robe, would she yell “Who are all
these god damned whores Billy? I can
hear them giggling. So I know there are
whores down here!” She came and got me
out of my bed. She told me my friends
were throwing a rager and it was up to me to get rid of them or she was calling
the fucking police.
If you have never seen an angry bear woken up, then you
probably have no idea what I am like when woken up middle of the night to throw
out the God Damn Whores, but I can tell you that I am not in a good mood. I am sure I fired off every obscenity in the
book to my mom before starting the death march down stairs. These things usually went very simply. I walk down stairs, I point to the God Damned
Whore in question and I tell them to either leave or tell someone who can drive
them home to make them gone. Usually at
the dissatisfaction of some young man who thought he might actually score that
night. Really as legendary as the b
basement was, it was not the brothel it was made out to be. Some legends never live up to expectation. So I march back to the pool and I tell
everyone out and we are going to bed. They
argue and threats of parents being called to pick them up get them moving.
This is when some poor son of a bitch makes the mistake of
telling me my hair flapping around like a roosters is the funniest thing they
have ever seen. This of course leads to
me very politely slamming them into the wall.
Then Removing Busch lite from their hand, and dumping it over their head. Upon realizing this was not punishment enough
for them, I pick up said friend and toss in pool and tell them to shut the fuck
up and if they ever talk bad of my hair again, there will be repercussions. Apparently, slamming, pouring, and tossing
into bull is not enough. To this day
every time I see said friend he reminds me of the night I came down stairs
puffed up like a rooster and insults my flapping hair.
You can see why this selfie of me was such a problem,
right? It’s all bad juju, all over
again. So, we have to come up with a new
hair strategy and that is it. We must
get a cut.
Actually, I think I was just trying to find a way to make
this blog funny. I am not sure it
worked. The truth is the decision to cut
my hair came long before I ever got up Saturday. I think most decisions re like that aren’t
they? Not made on the fly. The truth is my hair just wasn’t working for
me anymore. There are lots of reasons
why it longer worked. However, we will
stick with it was hot and annoying if you like.
We can also go with sometimes you have to purge everything in order to
really start fresh. We can say maybe we
decided it just didn’t look good anymore.
It could have been all of these reasons and none of them. It doesn’t really matter. When it is time, it is time.
So we went the barbar shop and left the floor like this:
So here is the new look (Yes, I look like a bad ass)!
And the truth if no one likes it that is ok because I know
this, Shiner sure does:
Truth be told... Yesterday and Today were some very big new beginnings for myself. So this haircut is sort of bridge to my new life and new role, and a healthier and happier me....
Also the cute girl in the office said I look 200% better and with my sunglasses on she said I looked like a badass!!! Actually got a lot of compliments and I am happy with it.
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