Why I Should Let My Hair Grow for World Peace


I hope this finds ya'll enjoying your weekend, I know I'm enjoying mine. But then, every second away from the Cubicle Asylum is like a week in the Bahamas.


I didn't get up that early this morning, but I was still up way before anyone else in the house, so let's call it early, kay?


I woke up around threeish last night/this morning from an odd dream. It took place in an upscale garage where the customers drove expensive sports cars and luxury vehicles. There was a couple who had brought an antique car by to have checked out that they were considering buying. I wish I could tell you exactly what kind of car it was, but I can't. I knew in the dream and at three a.m. I remembered alot of the details, but operation of a writing instrument is way too complicated for me to manage in the middle of the night, so all was lost the moment I went back to sleep.


I had another weird kinda Twilight Zone sort of moment after I had my coffee. I was standing in the bathroom, leaning in close to the mirror, trying in vain to snag one wiry, stray chin hair with the tweezers, when this random song just popped in my head:


Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word
Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where his feet pass
Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day


No clue why. I'm pretty sure I've not heard it anywhere in a really long time. Weird.


Anywho, after I had a shower and found out that the Amazon had no intention of getting out of bed and going with me, I drove out towards Big City to get my hair cut and to finally, after a very long time, get my nails done. I walked in the hair salon and sat down, waiting patiently to be signed in, the sound of John Mellencamp singing "Hurt so good" playing on the radio. The television was on, but the sound was off. There had been an explosion, this time at the Glasgow airport. I tried to sort out what had happened by reading the scrolling news feed at the bottom of the screen. One of the stylists was reminiscing with her customer about the time she gave him a mohawk, another was chatting with her kid on the phone. The lady beside me was reading the latest Paris Hilton news in a gossip rag, Mellencamp was begging "Come on baby make it hurt so good" and all the while the flames shot out from the burning car, licking the air, the hurried face of a reporter trying to tell me what had happened.


I think I should stop getting my hair cut. Maybe I'll join that weird cult that Maw Babs belongs to and just let it grow long and straight. The last time I got a hair cut, the television was on CNN and there was an armed man holding hostages at NASA.
Weird.