Upon Haircuts.

The barber carefully pulled off the 'cape' and with a flourish, let fly the little slain fragments of what used to be the luscious locks of my hair. I was squinting at the mirror at what appeared to be yet another royal screw-up of a haircut. I was already in damage control mode, telling myself this wasn't all that bad and would look excellent when it grew back. Of course it looks better when it grows back, the bar has been set pretty low. The barber looked at me through the mirror hopefully with a half smile, and all I could manage was a flustered smile back that may have resembled a grimace. But in a most unusual turn of events, when I pushed on my glasses to take a better look, I was surprised. The haircut was actually pretty good.

My grimace turned into a grin of satisfaction much to the delight of the man with the trimmer. He'd taken a few jabs at my hair with some hair product and it looked almost like the neat haircuts of the 1940s that I would love to see upon my own head but seemed doomed never to. For a bit of background, it is no secret in my friends' circle that I can never get a decent haircut. I shudder to imagine what would transpire if a good haircut complemented my devastatingly handsome looks and irresistible charm. Alas, it is not so - but either way, I walked out of the salon with my head held high (my mother is aghast at the classy nerd neck and the devilish round shoulders I have built through a year and a half of incredible posture) and strangely, my father approved, although I must note we agree upon haircuts more than either of expect to. I got home, and the crisp mop of hair still looked good.

Ecstatic, a changed man came out of the shower. But as I frantically tried to put the hair back the way I'd found it, the insolent bunch drooped down exactly the way I thought it did when I wasn't wearing glasses on the barber's chair. I brushed it off with a smile. Half the shampoo bottle was on my head, never mind - it would be alright as soon I showered again.

Nietzsche was right, we are indeed the ones who lie to ourselves the most.

It wouldn't.

Perhaps I should take my glasses off before striking up conversations with pretty girls.

PS School opens this week and I have a disappointing haircut, unopened notebooks that should be full of incomplete work, and no inkling of how things are going to go down at school.

On the bright side, I have an Asst. Head Boy badge to be collected, half the school to meet after what feels like years, and absolutely no inkling of how things are going to go down at school.

Post-Post Script

No, the self-aggrandisement in this post is definitely not sarcasm, it is simply narcissism coated in layers of irony.