Tuesday was Haircut Day for Mikey, but I got a wake-up call, informing me all appointments had been canceled: Grow Day.Instead, I had lunch with a lifelong friend, who asked me, "Do you color your hair?"
I was taken aback. "Who in the world colors his head gray?" I sputtered. "If I were to color my hair, I sure wouldn't be gray. Obviously, I'd go with my natural brown or paisley."
I'm burrowing into a cap.
When I was a toddler, my hair was blonde for a few years, but went away after the cease and desist order from Little Miss Sunbeam. D'oh!
About a year ago, my wife and I attended a very nice wedding in another state. At the sit-down dinner, I became unnerved when I noticed a stranger staring at me from across the large table. She didn't smile or avert her eyes, although I repeatedly gazed her way to determine if I might be undergoing a voodoo trance. I gathered chicken bones for a necklace and placed a garlic butter pat in each pocket.
Later, when I meandered off (without lurching helter-skelter to ritual drumbeats and a rogue raven pecking my cataract), this woman approached Donna, fawning over my "movie star hair." Those were the stalker's words. She was transfixed by my thatch and had corralled other women to gawk at the nattily-attired follicles.
Me, movie star hair? Yeah? Who?
Rogaine Flipper?
Anyway, today was Haircut Make-Good Day and my elongated grays got sheared back to Hollywood standards. There was no bloodshed. The auditor certified I walked away with two ears, both mine.
I'm pictured above several hours afterwards, windblown, and, apparently, inflated by a bicycle pump.
The grooming session did take longer than I anticipated. There was a make-good 'poo. Make-good rinse. Make-good repeat. Followed by 'poo. Rinse. Repeat.
Personally, I prefer to sport my hair longer, but I'm told my current trimmed tresses are 21st-century ready. I don't know about that. I fear the short length accents my movie star jowls.
Yeah. Who?
Sammy the Way-Out Seal.
And on weekends: Droopy.
