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I got my hair cut on Monday and it is really effing short. For the past two mornings I've woken up and looked in the mirror and gotten confused, because I don't know who that marine is looking at me.
The good part about having my hair this short is because it's impossible to mess it up. Seriously, it's like a half inch short. Everybody compliments me on it, but I'm pretty sure it's just because it is so noticeable. They're like, “Holy shit! That's a fucking haircut!” and even if they have a poor opinion/no opinion they feel compelled to comment.
I go to the same barber shop I've gone to for years, which is full of Vietnamese guys and one gay guy with a shaved head. Today I got the guy named Dan, a young guy with some tattoos that I can't see because they just barely peek out from under his short sleeves. He always asks me “You go out tonight with girlfriend?” A question which I usually duck or provide a vague answer. And then he asks me about which parties I am going to.
This time he asked me if I had a “hot date” and I replied that I was going to my Mom's house, so not quite. He replied that that was one of the best dates to have. Cute, right? I guess.
Anyways, I got my hair cut just in time for mother nature to slip an ice cube down the back of the DC Metropolitan area's shirt. So now, my head is unprotected — mostly because I never remember my hat.