Let me say this loud and clear…
I know my hair sucks.
You think I don’t know? I can’t get on a FaceTime or a Google Hangout or get tagged in a picture without someone audibly gasping or gently telling me that they think my hair is a pile of steaming hot garbage. The public opinion is quite clear.
How’d we get here?
Since I was about 3-years-old I’ve had the exact same haircut. 1 or 2 on the sides, scissors on top. Wash, rinse, repeat every 6 weeks or so.
Sure, there have been a few times where I would let a teammate or friend cut my hair to save some cash. Those tended to be a bit more questionable. They did, however, lead to the side-of-the-head mohawk, which was a hairstyle light years ahead of its time, so I can’t be totally mad.
Are you doing this on purpose?
Other than that, it has been 25 years of cookie cutter cuts. So, when I left to travel around the world for a year it seemed only fitting to mix things up a bit. Part of the whole, you know, “lost, borderline homeless looking traveler, trying to find himself” persona, I guess.
It all started out very harmless. A simple deal with a friend around the time I left home that I wouldn’t get a haircut until he landed a new job. Of course, he proceeded to take the entire summer off and left me looking like someone had chopped off the end of a mop, grabbed a bottle of Elmer’s glue and crudely pasted it to the top of my head.
Cut #1
About 4 months into this experiment my friend finally got a job and I finally got a haircut, but it was by no means my standard suburban New Hampshire cut. I walked into a Bulgarian barber shop thinking I’d just be able to get a simple trim of the sides and keep the flow going on top.
Bulgarian barber shop.
11AM bulgo time.
Plz send Ts & Ps.— Ryan Dunn (@Ry3Dunn) August 11, 2017
The result? Well, not good. Turns out “trim” doesn’t translate very well in Bulgarian. Good to see at least my family was supportive…
Glad to hear you got a haircut, no matter who did it. Maybe it will help with your love life.
— Tom Dunn (@DunnTom3) August 11, 2017
Cut #2
From there, it was another 2-3 months of nothing but people saying that this was “the ugly stage.” That I just needed to battle through it. Having never grown my hair out before, I listened.
Stupidly.
It took me a little while to realize this, but 2-3 months of people telling you that you’re in “the ugly stage” isn’t actually them telling you that you’re in the ugly stage, it’s just them telling you that you’re ugly.
So, after months of hearing this I came home one day and looked in the mirror and it all became clear. “This is pretty ugly…” And what’s someone to do who thinks their hair is ugly at a time like this?
Try and cut their own hair, of course.
Just like I had when I was 4 and 6 and 8 and now, 25-years-old, I grabbed the scissors and went to town; really only attacking around the ears and sideburns. When the scissors weren’t completely cutting it, I dove in with the back of my electric razor that I use to shave my non-existent facial hair. As expected, this didn’t end well. Instead of a trim, I just removed my sideburns all together.
What I was left with was nothing short of spectacular. Now, mind you, I had taken a few ceramics classes in high school (shoutout Mrs. Varney), so this shouldn’t come as a complete surprise, but what I produced was far better than any bowl I ever made on the wheel. Turn me over and you could’ve eaten Rice Krispies out of this thing. Preposterously bad.
Survive and advance
Eventually, I started to show some moderate signs of improvement. Things evened out, the mop continued to develop; I had never exactly been a hat guy, but I starting wearing a lot of hats. And just when things were starting to look up they all came crashing down again.
You know how Facebook serves you up old memories to remind you of happier times? Maybe it’s a picture of you and an ex-girlfriend, maybe it’s a picture of you and your dead dog, well, for me, it was just picture after picture of me with short hair. I looked so hot. I looked so desirable. I looked like a guy who might even land a girl once in awhile.
It was poison for my brain. Many months of dark nights and gentle reminders of what I used to be. I couldn’t help but wonder what life on the road would be like with my old cut.
I had to remain strong.
Push to the finish
I was too deep, too far along, too invested in the luscious flow to quit now. So, I made a pact with myself. A pact to let the locks fall where they may. To let the lettuce ride until it was time to return home. I have just a hair over two months left on this wild year-long journey and I know exactly how they’re going to go.
I’ll still get on FaceTimes where people on the other end will say, “Ohh! Eww! Uhh… What?! Your hair! It’s… It’s… It’s… ***Throw-up noise, throw-up noise, turn away from camera, actual throw-up*** uhhh… it’s different”
I’ll still keep a pair of scissors on my bedside table like I have for the last 142 nights just in case I wake up with a sudden urge to snip.
I’ll still see old pictures of myself and get confused that I’m looking at Ryan Gosling for a second (People forget I was once compared to Ryan Gosling in the Boston Globe).
And lastly, I’ll still keep hair flipping until my head falls off my body.