The Government And My Hair: A Tail of Uncertainty

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The Government And My Hair A Tail of Uncertainty

Today I woke up for the fourth straight day of not knowing what the hell was going on. A week ago, I could look in the mirror and think “you know what? Everything is gonna be OK. This’ll all straighten itself out.” And it usually did. With just a little effort and perhaps a little product, I could tame the savage beast back into doing what I wanted. It didn’t have to be the best looking, but as long as it worked, it worked.

But today was different. It was worse than the day before. And the previous two days.

At the beginning of the week I had noticed that it just wasn’t cooperating, so I didn’t shower. Perhaps a day or two off of the constant cycle of work would do something to my hair, I thought, and I thought incorrectly. How far off I was, dear reader. How far off I was. No sooner had I stepped out the door than did I realize that not only was my hair not working but it was therefore not making everything else not work, too. Terrifying!

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Soon, other people started to get upset with my hair. “Why isn’t it working?” they would say. “Can’t you just do something about it and get it back to normal again? Or at least working order?”

“No,” I had to reply, with a tear in my eye, “It’s like two halves are against each other. One side clearly doesn’t want to cooperate.”

“Even if you just wore a hat…” they’d reply, but hats were not a problem. There was something wrong on a fundamental level with my hair.

I thought about shaving it all off, starting over. But that couldn’t be an option. It would take months to get back to normal after that and I couldn’t wait that long – nobody could wait that long. Work had to be done; you can’t just hit the reset button and hope for the best. You need to tame it, take it back into your control. You can’t just pretend that failure is part of the solution and let it do what it wants and figure itself out.

I looked in the mirror once more: I looked like Cure frontman Robert Smith after a three day wine, cheese, and Ambien binge. I knew there was just one option. I needed a cut.

The hairdresser looked at my mess. “Some of these needs to go,” she said, “This has gone on for far too long and is problematic.”

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“How about you take off a fair amount of the right and some of the left, too?” I asked, “It’s not always the right’s fault. If the left could just be strong it wouldn’t let the right overpower it.”

“Are you talking about the American political system or your hair?” she asked, polishing her scissors.

“My hair, obviously,” I said, “Why would you get any idea otherwise?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said, “We get a lot of people coming into the Extended Metaphor Salon asking these kind of questions.”

“Well, when you’ve got something you’ve gotta let go of…” I say, watching the dead weight fall to the floor, “Ain’t no better place to come.”

“True,” she replied, “That John Boehner is sure a fucking piece of shit, though.”

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