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Few words in the English language strike fear in my heart more than haircut. It really astonishes me that such a simple thing can absolutely rock my world in such a gigantic way.

It's a simple thing really, I drive a car to point A (hopefully an establishment devoted to the art of trimming hair), let a person take scissors to my head, pay for said service, and leave. On a difficulty scale set from one to ten, this should really be a negative five.

But alas, this the storybook ending I never get a chance to fulfill. Instead, I post-pone the event for weeks and make excuses until my hair gets to the point where I can start seeing it on the sides of my peripheral vision. Then, I beg my parents for a couple bucks (I can't bare to spend my own money on will eventually become a travesty) and dive out to Borics to have Dee or Floyd cut off my hair.

I guess the whole process of cutting the hair is fine, it is just the end result that hits me so hard. I hate the look of myself after a haircut. I guess it is a personal image problem, but frankly I look like shit after any haircut. No matter who does it, how hard they worked, how many many hours have been spent, or how much hair gel is used afterwards. It still looks like a tragedy, a trainwreck, or even worse, the 2007 Miami Dolphins season.

I guess I shouldn't get too worried. It will look fine in a week or so after it grows in a little. It always does...