far too much writing, far too many photos

The hair on this head of mine grows at a pace that is practically inhuman. At a nearly hyperactive rate. I’ll get it cut as short as a finger’s-width — two, three months later, it’s all over the place. Not that I’m complaining — having a full head of hair is a fine thing, especially compared with some of the alternatives.

I mention all this because I went for a cut today. At a little joint called Acme Hair in Montpelier. A one-room operation on the second floor of a brick building on State Street, up above the Capitol Grounds (a good, funky cafĂ©). The woman who runs the place turned out to be a genuine character — pushing 60, as slim as they come, hair partially dyed an unnatural red. Talkative, frequently bursting into a nearly noiseless laugh. She asked me what we were doing today, I told her we were cutting my hair short, real damn short.

I do that, let my hair get excessively big and bushy, then get it sheared off. It’s fun, that kind of change and contrast. Plus, my hair is so easy to take care of when it’s short. Then it grows in, goes through all sorts of stages — some pleasing, some less so — until it reaches critical mass and becomes a serious pain in the hind quarters.

I’m flying south tomorrow for a few days. To spend a few days cavorting with a representative of the opposite sex. Eight or nine hundred miles south, where spring is in full swing (like it was in Madrid — sniffle). I wanted a warm-weather cut for the trip, that’s what I’ve got.

I’ll write from down there. Maybe. And one of these days I might get back to throwing together real, lengthy entries. We’ll see.

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