Cut the crap

You have to be very careful which song you cut your hair to. Not meaning that your haircut will be influenced by the music, as if you'd look like Rod Stewart if your scissors work out to The Faces. Instead, it's all down to volume and level of self-destruction. Both for hair and musical content.


I practised this recently. I decided I needed to cut my hair. A perfectly grown-up decision. Not involving any sort of negative thinking at all. I just wanted to become a supermodel. Or, at least, I wanted to look less like a junkie. So far, so good intentions.


I have long hair. I went through a rough period five years ago when I actually believed getting a close crop would turn me into Mia Farrow or Audrey Hepburn. Didn't really. Made me resemble Matt Damon a lot, though. In every bad way possible. Anyway, while having short hair it was fairly easy to cut it. I could just trim it every week and make no real damage (since I looked like an extra from Footloose anyway). Snip, snip, some hair on the floor and less on the head but no big difference at all. End of worries, fit for important tasks like selling jewellery and eating myself into oblivion every night.


Those days are gone. I decided to grow my hair really long, to achieve a certain fabulous, Californian surfer girl effect. Only problem is, my hair was not in on the ride. It stopped half way down my ears for a never ending break. Of cuticles. My blonde bombshell ambitions were promptly halted and reversed into yesterday's wholewheat spaghetti-hair. Too bad grunge was over.


I think I've run out of hair-related words. But I'll try to go on. Back to the bathroom mirror, where I was going to give myself a true makeover. No dramatic changes, just a little bit of cutting here and there. I put on some music. I only ever put on music I like. As you do, of course. Thing is, I thought I would try a different approach and put on some fashionable hair model music. Whatever that is. It came through the speakers, though. Made me look so cool I could hardly watch my own face. That part is a lie, but I kept the shallow and ultra-vogueish tune going as I took the scissors in my hand.


I started cutting my hair. Chop, chop. After a few minutes I was so into the music I no longer saw my future haircut as something to be happy about in the mornings, but as an art statement. I kept cutting in new angles, trying to make new sounds as the cutters sliced through the layers. Oblivious to time, beauty and sheer common sense, I was an electro-obsessed barber with silver weapons in hand, fighting the great cornfield on my head with mad relish. Until it all stopped.


I wish I could say that what was left of my hair was inventive, original and downright brilliant. I almost wish that more than I wish it was beautiful. It was neither. It was crap. However, if you close your eyes when you meet me in a dark alley on a moonlit night, I do look a little bit like Rod Stewart.


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