This is the story of a haircut.
I used to have long hair. Really long hair. I looked different. I know that because when people look at my old profile pictures they message me, "Lol who is that."
I don't really remember when I started growing it out. I think it just kind of happened. I think I woke up one day, and it was long. Really long.
I used to go to the driving range quite a bit with my dad. It was fun because we could pretend we were rich and laugh at people who couldn't hit the ball. One time, some guy ran up to me and asked me who I was. I told him. He told me that I had a nice swing and that when he saw me from a distance, he thought some woman was hammering the ball. He apologized for getting mixed up.
I used to be pretty good at baseball. I played enough video games when I was little to guarantee decent hand-eye coordination. During gym in high school, we played baseball in the spring. Kids called me "The Mane." I thought it was pretty funny.
People knew me because of my hair. I was fine with that. People would ask me if I knew where they could get pot. I would tell them I didn't know. They'd ask me why I had long hair if I didn't smoke. Was I into metal? I'd tell them I was scared of barbers.
When I arrived at Dartmouth, I still had long hair. I'd thought about cutting it before I came. Then I thought about how seldom I actually do the things I think about. Then I probably watched "The Wire" or played Xbox. I was scared of the hair. I was scared of what it would do to me if I cut it.
Kids would sometimes poke fun at me. I was fine with that because I'd tell them they were dumb. People look at you a bit differently when you have long hair. I'd catch weird glances and feel like I must be the most interesting thing they'd seen all day. It was something that they'd talk about at dinner with the family. "Today I saw this kid with really long hair. It was hella wild."
During my sophomore Summer, I went into town to get a haircut. I wasn't actually scared of barbers. I asked them to trim it up a little bit. She pulled out the trimmer, and in less than a second, half of my hair was gone. I was too stunned to say anything.
I watched her cut and trim and spruce, and I didn't say anything. When she was done, my hair was short. That is not what I wanted. She'd destroyed a decade's worth of work. She'd destroyed the reason people remember me. I thought about burning the shop down. I left a 25 percent tip.
I went back to my house. I think I cried a little. My roommate walked in. I told him to leave. One of my friend's girlfriends told me that she liked it. I told her to shut up. It was not the nicest thing I've ever done.
I sometimes think about what dying is going to be like. I try not to because it scares me. I've always had trouble with faith because I like science. When I think about dying, I think about what it'll be like to be something one minute and be nothing the next. That's going to blow.
I worry about how I'll be remembered. I doubt too many people will care when I go. I don't think too many people ever really care. It's one of those things that kind of just happens. But I want to be remembered. That's the closest I think I'll get to immortality. I don't have my hair anymore. I don't think people will be able to remember me without it.
