Tagged in: autobiography

The Space Monkey

I’m feeling a strong urge to shave my head today. I’m not sure why. Yes, it is growing to lengths that require me to actually groom it rather than give my head a quick rub which adds to my valuable cereal eating time each morning. Aesthetically, I prefer a short haircut, a taper or white-boy fade. I got one last time because I felt it made me look more professional (read employable) than the close cropped shaved look I often sport. But I have a job now and my electric clippers are calling my name softly from the darkness under the sink.

I go in cycles. Sometimes I shave my head and then let it grow out for months before shaving it again. The act of shaving one’s head is immeasurably more pleasing when the hair is of adequate length. Its a solitary joy, a ritual I enact by myself. There’s a purifying element about it that I find psychologically useful. Its almost like an extraordinarily miniature rebirth. By shedding my follicular protection, I am preparing to face the world anew. The old, shaggy haired me dies little by little as big clumps of my hair fall to the bathroom floor. Plus it makes me feel sleeker and more aerodynamic. With a freshly shorn pate, I feel like I could run or swim approximately 34% faster. And then there are the tactile pleasures. I enjoy rubbing my own head after a fresh shave, going with and against the grain to locate any strays who avoided the clippers’ pass. The feeling of the water on my head the first time I take a shower afterwards is always a pleasant surprise, even though I know its coming. Plus I have to use less shampoo.

I promise this will be the only post I ever make dedicated to my hairstyle.