Monday, May 17, 2004
Report: Day 68
My initial inclination on this one was to choose a hair in a very unlikely place and declare it the hair I will be permitting to grow out a full meter. Say this lovely little arm hair on the back of my wrist. However, according to How Stuff Works it is not possible for me to encourage this hair to grow any longer than a fraction of an inch, even with a faithful regime of shaving and Rogaine.
My options, it would seem, are limited to the top of my head. I
have, therefore chosen the hair at the very tip of my widows peak. Heedless of men's fashion or other societal norms I will refrain from trimming this hair, though it fall in my eyes, though it declines to be tamed by styling product, though it flutters in the breeze like the plume of a quail.
And if an erstwhile stylist becomes over zealous and despite my protestations snips my meter bound hair, which I will name Trevor, I will commit to starting over, no matter how long it takes, until Trevor reaches his full potential of one meter in length. Oh, I will mourn Trevor if the unspeakable happens in some barber's chair somewhere, but I will live to see Trevor one meter long no matter what it takes.
Today is downsizing day.
My options, it would seem, are limited to the top of my head. I
have, therefore chosen the hair at the very tip of my widows peak. Heedless of men's fashion or other societal norms I will refrain from trimming this hair, though it fall in my eyes, though it declines to be tamed by styling product, though it flutters in the breeze like the plume of a quail.
And if an erstwhile stylist becomes over zealous and despite my protestations snips my meter bound hair, which I will name Trevor, I will commit to starting over, no matter how long it takes, until Trevor reaches his full potential of one meter in length. Oh, I will mourn Trevor if the unspeakable happens in some barber's chair somewhere, but I will live to see Trevor one meter long no matter what it takes.
Today is downsizing day.
