Sometimes I think that I’ll start posting witty, topical comments about politics, or use a little of my feminist/queer theory background and impress the hell out of all of you with my pithy yet provocative analysis of the Foucauldian nature of departmental lunches, or write something here that will resonate with the frustrated poet lurking in your soul and encourage you to skip work and go drink sangria on the nearest river shore.

But that’s not today. Today I just want to tell you that in three hours, I’m going to get a haircut.

This will be, essentially, the first real haircut* of my life. You heard me. Here’s why:

When I was little, we went to the Beauty School for our haircuts. $3 a pop, and my mom would send me back to hand the apprentice cosmetologist a $1 tip. Not too traumatic, since I was young enough that the Dorothy Hamill cut I regularly got made me very happy. When I hit 11 or 12, it was Supercuts, where they would brush the curls out and turn me into my mom. I stopped getting haircuts at all at age 14. At 18, I let someone trim the back a bit, but it wasn’t really a haircut per se. The Yogini claims it was a haircut, and she was there, but I don’t remember much about it. When I was about 28, I let Azucar trim the ends, but we were really really high, so I’m not sure that counts as a haircut either. When I was 30, the Yogini gave me dreadlocks, since I was leaving HappyRiverTown to head off to Fancypants U. and I really wanted to not fit in. The Yogini worked for eight solid hours to start those dreads for me and knitted me a hat to cover them up until they looked presentable, and I wore the hell out of them for three years. Then, as you may recall, when I was 33–way back in July–Skycat fed me shots of tequila on the roof and lightened me up. And I had, miraculously, enough left on my head to be called hair; and lo, it was good.

Except now it’s not, so I’m going to get a haircut.

*Whoa. I typed “haircult”. Verrrry interesting….

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