I ventured out into the crumby weather today to get a haircut. It was 34* with rain, sleet, snow and other crud falling from the sky. The front stairs were glazed over and threatening to act more like a ski jump than steps. I needed to get food into the house before Sunday's football game and decided a haircut would be nice too.
I have a full head of hair. It is mostly grey, but thick enough to go outside at -5* without a hat. I have often said that all I need to do to kick start a diet with an 8 pound loss, is get a haircut. Its been 2 1/2 months since my last buzz so I had a bunch to shed.
I walked into the shop and the woman actually asked what she could do for me. A haircut, maybe. Duh. Forty minutes and 8 pounds later, there was a pile of hair on the floor and she was looking for the bulldozer to clear the floor. Now I can run faster and jump higher.
I have a long history of big spaces between cuts. My father was on his way to Korea on an all expense paid, not completely voluntary trip funded by the U.S. Army. My mother decided that she liked my curly blond hair too much to get it cut.
This is my aunt's dog, Sparky and 3 y.o. Master Flannery (on the right). I kept the butter colored curls until I was 4 and Dad returned to Minnesota. My friend, Patsy O'Reilly, dragged me around the neighborhood after the buzz, showing everyone that "I was really a boy". My mother bagged the ringlets from the floor. When my grandma died many years later in her stuff we found a small box with a Shirley Temple like ringlet of hair in it marked "Peter's curl". I still have that box in my stuff.