Judging me by my cover

You may not know it, but I’m the guy with the hair. For most of my life, for better or worse (mostly worse), I’ve been identified by my hair. In high school, my sister once famously pointed me out in a large crowd (at a football game) by saying, “look, he’s the guy with the hair.” Amongst family, it was the anglo-fro.

Yep, that was me.

I say that *was* me because my wife cleaned me up. Wives/fiances/girlfriends are good for that, and in many, many ways… I needed a good cleaning. She delivered.

But in some respects, I feel like a fraud walking around with a neatly trimmed, close cut do. There’s a certain comfort/freedom in making bad first impressions, and easily living up to (and exceeding) them. Besides, in my mind I still see myself as that shaggy headed goof in college; not some neatly trimmed, gasp… somewhat competent adult/professional. Being neat carries so much baggage… so many burdens of expectation. Why can’t I look like a goof if I want to?

Being sick has been liberating, in that I’ve been able to revert to form – the guy with the hair. My wife hates it, but I feel so free.

Give the gift of words.