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I've been told (by extremely unreliable sources) that I look younger with my new haircut. That's okay, but it wasn't my goal. I don't want to look as if I'm trying to look younger, that's for sure. Neither do I want to look any older, necessarily, although it's sort of inevitable with the passage of time.
The last time I changed hairstyles was thirty-five years ago, and it was both temporary and unintentional. When I left for my freshman year in college, no one had ever cut my hair except my dad. He was diligent about it and always kept it shorter than the prevailing style. When I came home for Christmas break, I looked just as shaggy as any other eighteen-year-old in 1967, and a little worse than most. I'm sure Dad was mortified.
Other than that little detour, I've been cutting and combing my hair the same way since Dad let me grow my flattop out. I was probably twelve or thirteen. So this new style is a big deal. I'm a little obsessive and I check myself out in the mirror off and on all day. It's not vanity. It can't be, because nobody else sees me. Maybe if someone else were around, I'd be checking them out instead of myself. On the other hand, maybe I'd be checking myself out even more.
The weird thing is that I never use a comb now. I use my hands to push my hair back away from my face, and that's it. I do it when I get out of the shower in the morning, and I do it all day long. Every so often I'll wet my hands before I do it, just to see the difference. It never looks quite the same from one hour to the next, and I think that's part of the appeal. I walk over to the mirror and look to see who I am now.
That's the real fascination, I guess. Suddenly my house is full of people who look different, but they're all me! | 
