The Buzz Cut

So on one of the days right in the middle of the move trauma I decided I needed a haircut.  I was in a bad mood, what with all of the lousy weather and uprooting trauma, and the money flying out the window.  I think it would have been cheaper if I had simply driven down the highway throwing fistfuls of signed checks out the window.  Anyone who found one of the checks could have filled in whatever amount they liked and cashed the thing.  I think it would have saved me some money in the long run.

Anyway, I'm driving along in this bad mood and I pass a barber shop.  I didn't feel like calling up the guy who normally cuts my hair and is familiar with my mercurial mood swings, which was not a good move on my part.  I'm not even sure my regular guy does a good job.  It's not like he's working with George Clooney.  A bad haircut might be noticeable on George.  I have so many other shocking problems with my appearance that the eye is naturally drawn away from any errors on the top of my head.

I told the guy in the barber shop to "just cut it all off," holding my finger and thumb about a quarter of an inch apart.  My hair was close to pony tail length.  Dude shrugs and buzz cuts me.  Takes about 10 minutes.  Looks like shit.  My hair line, while holding its ground, is weirdly uneven.  SuperK thinks it looks like the interface between the ying and the yang symbol, which makes me laugh and pisses me off at the same time. 

"Oh, god," she said when I got off the plane.  "You never do anything in moderation, do you?"