Hairdo

Some days I don’t know what to write, so I write about that.

I actually get quite worried-some days-that I’ve dried up, that I’ve run out of interesting things to write about. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, I need to reinstate my post-it note reminder system. That worked pretty good before, but I’m stuck in this chair for now, writing for the sake of writing because I’m a writer, and sometimes you’ve just got to write about writing until you can write about something else.

At least I’m practicing typing, that’s important. I’m not very fast at typing yet, but I’m a lot better than I was a year ago. I’ve tried using those free typing courses, but they’re actually pretty difficult for someone that already types a lot-however poorly-because the patterns are quite unnatural. Dad had sad salads. Salsa. Fran can stand and a man ran fast...maybe I should just go back to the courses and stick it out.

I’d like to type 60 words per minute. I know a lot of people can type way faster, but I like the thought of a word a second, so I’d be ok with that. I don’t want to type faster for this kind of writing, not all the time at least. I WANT to overthink here because it makes the writing...juicy. I just want to be able to get my school work done more quickly. I figure that if I can type fast enough that I don’t give myself the chance to overthink my responses too much, I will get marks just as high in a lot less time.

-38 hours pass-

Anyway, I was rambling yesterday, and today doesn’t look to be much different. I’m not behind on writing, but I’d rather be ahead, and I’m not. Late last year I quite regularly had posts lined up for a week or more, but I’m trying some new things that I believe will make my day to day life more pleasant, and my writing schedule has suffered a little as a result of the wobble.

That’s ok. I’m having more fun.

Hez and I had a good laugh the other night, a real tummyacher, one of those laughs that take a while to wind down from, and once you do, you say, “I haven’t laughed like that since......” Whether you remember or not, it’s best to not dwell on it for too long once you think about it. We were talking about my stupid haircut, and what the plan was for it, moving forward. I had what I called a fireman’s haircut for several years, but now I’m growing a mohawk/mullet. We are undecided as to whether we should call it a momullet, or a mullhawk. It doesn’t really matter because we always wind up describing it anyway. The mullet part is nearly long enough to make into a teeny pony-tail, and the mohawk/fauxhawk part is still short enough to stand up on it’s own, but still kinda long, because my hair likes to do that.

Possible endgame scenarios include, aside the presumption that the fauxhawk will remain much as it is now, several increasingly dumb-looking options. 1)Just grow it out, long, and a bit wispy, until I get it caught in something like a door or a drill, or I light it on fire in a candle or woodstove adventure. 2) Grow it out and braid it like Scott Ian and Kerry King braided their goatees to look like greasy little rat tails on their chins, but on the back of my head. 2a) Instead of braiding, just put a bunch of elastics in it so it looks like a more segmented, and possibly colourful rat tail. There must be no rhyme nor reason to the colour scheme or type of these elastics, except no scrunchies. 3) Keep the mohawk pretty short, and cultivate a single, thumb-thick dread. This future-dread would have a name, and would be off-centered on the back of my skull. I would then buy a rasta hat to tuck it into, but it would always fall out and bother me, and I’d have to keep tossing my head and flicking it off my shoulder while I was on the road, hitch-hiking from one music festival to another while simultaneously accruing several plethoras of followers on instagram under a moniker like one_dread_man, or one_z_nuff, or dreadhokk_666.

On principal, I’d have to enact some other violation to complete my cultural appreciation hat-trick, like adding a feather, or wearing buckskins, but there are also significant issues with this dream-of-a-life, like the fact that the two things I detest even more than hitch-hiking, are music festivals, and ESPECIALLY reggae.

But we were just spitballing.

I’ll probably just go get it cut.

Anyway, believe in yourself.

Be a weirdo.

Rock a stupid hairdo.

If you want to, too.