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Apr. 8th, 2010 11:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
flyakateI got a haircut! I always enjoy the whole ordeal of having someone else basically massage your head... not to mention that I am no longer drowning in my curly hair. Don't get me wrong; I like my hair. I like having hair. I actually (finally!) like having curly hair. But when it gets a little long, it gets to be a little much. But today it is shorter, and I'd forgotten how curly that could be. As my lacrosse players told me: "is your hair ALWAYS this curly?"
Only when someone else does it, kid.
For some reason my right eye is kind of squinty. My apologies. Also, I feel that the art on the wall (a collage of some of my favorite DVDs) is very early college dorm room chic. Amusing.
With some judicious use of the search function of Google, I can even share a haircut poem! This is a more exciting (or at least exotic) haircut than I've ever gotten, but still.
Foreigner's Haircut by R. Nemo Hill
(source)
Placed on the garden path’s uneven stones
the bamboo stool tips slightly to one side.
Close to my ear, I hear the squeaking tones
of scissor blades. Sometimes I catch the eyes
of several young boys seated at my feet
who stare in blank amazement, unabashed.
They know already that I sleep, and eat—
but here is evidence far more concrete,
more intimately human.
Shorn, unmasked,
I shower, check the mirror, step outside
to hang my towel in the sun. The last
few fallen locks of my own hair blow by—
re-animated by a passing breeze,
mixed with mimosa and hibiscus leaves.
Only when someone else does it, kid.
For some reason my right eye is kind of squinty. My apologies. Also, I feel that the art on the wall (a collage of some of my favorite DVDs) is very early college dorm room chic. Amusing.
With some judicious use of the search function of Google, I can even share a haircut poem! This is a more exciting (or at least exotic) haircut than I've ever gotten, but still.
Foreigner's Haircut by R. Nemo Hill
(source)
Placed on the garden path’s uneven stones
the bamboo stool tips slightly to one side.
Close to my ear, I hear the squeaking tones
of scissor blades. Sometimes I catch the eyes
of several young boys seated at my feet
who stare in blank amazement, unabashed.
They know already that I sleep, and eat—
but here is evidence far more concrete,
more intimately human.
Shorn, unmasked,
I shower, check the mirror, step outside
to hang my towel in the sun. The last
few fallen locks of my own hair blow by—
re-animated by a passing breeze,
mixed with mimosa and hibiscus leaves.
