Hair. Again.

Some weeks ago, I wrote here about my hair and how long it’s getting. Now it’s worse. I haven’t been to a barber since February. I’m able to trim my beard, mustache, and sideburns, but the hair on the back of my head just keeps getting longer. It’s long enough now that I could, if I wanted to, gather it into an unbraided pigtail and secure it with a rubber band—a topknot but on the back of my head. Or maybe a male ponytail.

I am being more careful than most during the pandemic because I would be so vulnerable if I were infected with covid-19—an older man with a history of lung cancer. So, since March, I’ve avoided contact with other human beings and animals. It hasn’t been too bad because I’m a loner by nature, like many writers. That said, I feel a hankering for company, especially women. Meanwhile, my hair keeps growing. And growing. And growing.

I’ve not had a haircut for the better part of a year and won’t until it’s safe to congregate. That could be next summer or even longer. By then, I suppose, my hair will be down to my shoulders.

I wonder if I ought to see about giving myself a permanent.

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