I was due for a haircut at the end of February, just as I was starting to worry about the possibility of a COVID-19 pandemic.  At that point, barbershops (like everything else) were still open.  But as I was ahead of the curve on worry – and therefore also on social distancing – I decided to exercise an abundance of caution, and held off.

By now, however, I’m starting to wonder about the wisdom of that choice.  Just a few weeks in, and I’m already looking pretty feral.  Jess has volunteered her help – she’s said she’d even be willing to watch a couple of YouTube videos on technique before coming at me with the clippers.  Though, with apologies to her, in this case, I think the cure really might be worse than the disease.

I’d consider just buzzing it all off, but I did that unintentionally about 18 months ago (I thought the barber was asking how long I wanted the sides, he thought he was asking how long I wanted the top, and it turns out a ‘two’ is a pretty close cut), and it took long enough to grow back that I’d rather skip the option if possible.

So, for the moment, I’m just rolling with it.  Even if I’ve now reached a phase where, despite increased length, my hair mostly sticks straight up in the air, giving me a definite Jimmy Neutron vibe.

Or, at least, it would be, if I weren’t ruining the look with an increasingly heavy beard.  I’d say it was sort of a ‘Jimmy Neutron of the Mountains.’  But, as I’m disappointed to discover each time I grow one out, a month of beard on me says less ‘rugged,’ and more ‘rabbinical.’

These are tough times indeed.