… before tonight’s must-win. Actually, what am I saying? They’re all must-wins. But, our universe doesn’t revolve around the Cubs.
It revolves around our hair. And if you’ve met us, or (shudder) went to college with us and our much-maligned shampoo rotation, then, you’re nodding your head.
12. “When I look in the mirror. I can’t believe what I see. Tell me, who’s that funky dude
Staring back at me?”
Weezer, The Good Life.
Weezer’s nostalgic homage to the halcyon days of shaking booty, chasing trim and drinking all afternoon (first case theirs, second case mine) would seem to suggest that the best days are always the days of yore, rather than what’s in front of you. Moreover, it’s a tongue-in-cheek whine from whenever it is that potential begins to shrink into current humdrum existence. If those days exist.
But if I could be a little vain, for me, The Good Life cuts both ways. For instance, I got a haircut tonight. I know, just in time for the birthday. Once upon a time, my haircuts were monumental occurrences – thinning out long-ass nappy preppie hair and shearing an askew head-line. Now, however, it’s basically a straight-up trim with no real style or technique. It’s just short. And each time, there’s less clippings on the floor (I swear) and each time, the faint scalp beneath the vertex is more visible (I double swear).
And when I was 23, all I did was worry about my hair – obsessively scanning the follicles under fluorescent light, and beginning the frantic tugging habit that’s now become a nervous tick. But here I am, almost 30, and my hair, actually, looks better than it did seven years ago. Or at least (surprisingly) less pretentious. Seriously. Sure, my stomach roils every time I notice the receding hairline and (now, sigh) flecks of gray, but it’s not really a problem.
My lesson? Well, it’s something about wasting your time worrying about stuff you can’t control. Or worrying about vain, empty, insecure flaws that no one else could see if you didn’t point them out. Or simply being so stuck on yourself that you find time to actually be insecure. Because here I am, thirty years old, and I still have hair. And so, sometimes I long to return to the moppish days of my sophomore year, clad in flannel shirt, wide-open to reveal a Beth Hart Band tee, hemp Metallica necklace clutching my neck, and ratty hair flopping over my eardrums.
But, in fact, things are actually, probably better now.
(Of course, my job sucks, the Cubs are disintegrating and the midwest is a wasteland, but hey, we can’t have it all, right?)
