This week I’m going to do it.
Up until now I’ve only almost cut my hair. Crosby, Still, Nash and Young syndrome you might say.
I look like a wildman. I don’t even bother to comb my hair up here in the wilderness.
I keep hoping for re-entry. A return back to a normal life.
Getting my hair cut is a ritual. A statement of hope. Almost a prayer.
HA HA HA.
(you don’t always like the answer when you pray, so I’m told).