Blogagaard Recieves Stellar Haircut

The lady who cuts my hair is named Donna. She is of simple folk, and what we do together is simply beautiful when it is done well: the haircut. I walk in shaggy, a possible future mudflap creeping down the back of my neck. I walk out well-trimmed, my head and soul lighter. I reenter humanity a new Dave, a Dave who just got his haircut and withstood twenty minutes of dull conversation without cracking.

Yet getting a haircut always makes me consider the cyclical nature of life itself. Sure, this is a fine haircut right now, but in a month my hair will getting long again, and a month after that I will need to return to Donna, that Siren of the Scissors. If I don't go bald, this will be an endless cycle of cutting, of Donna sowing what my hair folicles have reaped, until one one of falls to the ground, face first into a pile of all that hair which has gone before us, both of us totally exhausted by the whole routine. What is the point of it all?

To have hair, only to lose it?

(Bloggaaard would like to extend his appologies to Brady, Mikey, and Clurg, who may have felt left out by this post. Be strong, my folicly challenged bretheren)