My hair grows alarmingly fast it seems. I’ve been going to the same haircutter (She’s not a barber because she’s a woman, right? I don’t want to call her a stylist because I’m a guy) for over 10 years. Paula (the haircutter) is up by my parents’ house so I plan haircuts to coincide with visits to my parents. This usually works but I haven’t been up there in awhile. As a result, my hair is starting to get out of control. When it gets this long it loses its fight against gravity and falls into this game show host part. I can deal with it by constantly running my hands through it to try and keep it pepped up. That doesn’t work though. It just falls back down.

Overall, this doesn’t bug me. I can wait until I get another haircut. I end up trimming my sideburns to varying degrees of success. I trimmed them at least a month ago and now my ears are being overrun once again. I can get by for another couple weeks though.

Monica on the other hand cannot. Apparently my longish hair is pissing her off. I thought that her telling me that my hair is “really too long” was just a joke. I took it in stride. That was until the other day when she threw down an ultimatum to get my hair cut. It needed to be done. Seriously. Or Apple Butt. I explained to Monica that I thought she was joking so she suggested we come up with a safe word for when we need to talk serious. That safe word is Apple Butt.

Anyway, I don’t want to go to a different haircutter despite a few being readily available within a few blocks. Fortunately, the Neon Gloworms are playing near my parents house next weekend and I was able to coordinate a trip up there looping in a haircut too. Now I just have to deal with my hair…or rather Monica does. I’m OK.

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