Dearest sister-in-law,
It is with a heavy heart and nervous fingertips I write to you now, as a great deal depends on this letter. I was going to text you using my mobile phone, but you know what? Some things are too important not to be conveyed in long-form, as our forefathers did it, and their forefathers before them (maybe not their forefathers, though). A telephone call, I thought, would also be a tad too impersonal. Telephones–in my mind–have always been and most likely will always be for one thing: telethons (the root is the same, even). Occasionally phones may be used for ordering things in a non-telethon type of situation, but I shouldn’t have to stress how unspeakably rare this would be.
No, something like this can only be said in a letter, as it’s something I’ve needed to say for a long time, now. Sure I’ve had my opportunities. I’m sure I’ve seen you in passing here and there on facebook, perhaps in a fleeting comment about a Juliet video, or perhaps when Sam was texting you while watching Master Chef. Those opportunities were there, and I let them slip by like too many photos left undeveloped and frozen in their rolls now jolting about in the trunk of my car (I think I meant to get them developed after that one trip to Salt Lake City, but they fell out of the bag, you see).
That’s neither here nor there. I’ll get straight to the point.
I think I need a haircut.
And by think, of course I mean desperately understand how badly I need one. There, I said it. I would otherwise breathe a sigh of relief, that weight lifted off my chest, but indeed I cannot, for if only saying what needs done were to solve problems then politics in our country would cease to exist. No, you see simply requesting it I fear is not enough this time. Action must be taken, and soon. My life depends on it. Let me explain.
Just last week I was walking into work when I came to a ghastly realization: I had forgotten to wear my baseball cap (as I am wont to do these days) and I could feel the thick shame as my coworkers looked on in a gross mixture of disgust and pity. “How could he go around like that?” I heard them think. And I had no reply. I thought I could just skate by pretending this problem didn’t exist and that if I did that long enough then maybe it truly would go away, but of course it didn’t.
Later that week my cube-mate Brandon asked me, “Hey when’re you going to get your hair cut?”
I could feel his eyes judging me, as though it was suddenly clear that he’s always been on a higher level than me, both professionally and in terms of general character. And by asking this he’d just brought it all to light. Now I know it, and even worse, he knows I know it.
Last night I awoke in a sweat that chilled through my nerves down to my bones. I was on a game show of the damned where those with the longest, most unruly hair were forced to fight in an arena against shears and razors until no one was left alive. I woke up at the part where my teeth fell out.
It’s no longer just a matter of personal appearance for me. It goes without saying that I now look like some sort of hideous combination of Daryl Hall and Snuffleupagus. Nor is it a matter of simple respect. I lost that weeks ago when through tears I picked up a half-emptied bottle of hairspray and pointed it in the general direction of my coiffure, cursing silently to my reflection all the while. No, it’s about my very life. Those are the stakes. Haircut I live, none I die.
How could that even be true? Well let me answer that question by asking you a question: do you know what the number five leading cause of death in this country is? The answer is accidents. Not clear enough? Let me spell it out a little clearer: unintentional and unforseen death brought on by unlikely circumstances. Is it so damn unlikely that my lack of a haircut causes me to literally perish? The stats don’t lie (sources: http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/lcod.htm, http://uptownmagazine.com/2012/02/death-by-hair-extensions).
Now is it more realistic that I’ll walk in to work and someone there will shout “get a haircut!” at me and throw a toaster oven at me causing me to fall down a flight of stairs? Of course it is, but the problem with all of these very real possibilities is that no one can see them coming.
I implore you, dearest sister-in-law, please try to find time in your schedule to arrange for me a haircut.
Here’s another (actual) statistic for you: kids who grow up in fatherless homes are 24.3 times more likely to runaway from home. Now, if I were to die due to a lack of haircut this might technically be your fault. Also, if I don’t get a haircut soon one could argue that I might as well be dead. One could argue that.
This is my final plea to you, one that I’ve decided needed to be written out in long-form, as something shorter might not have gotten your attention.
In case I was wrong, I converted this letter into Twitter format. Ahem:
omg hey man can you cut my hair pls? I could die at work from a toaster oven 😦
It is with unparalleled anticipation I await your response.
Kindly,
C. Glass
The Glass City 