I asked Father Facebook (not to be confused with Father Google) whether I should let my hair continue to grow in spite of its annoying habit of getting in my eyes, thereby driving me crazy, or cut it. Fickle Father Facebook gave me answers ranging from “cut it” to “pigtails” to “braids” to “man bun.” One or two responses suggested a clean shave; I am afraid to do that, as the science of phrenology might reveal latent criminality I have heretofore successfully—more or less—hidden from public view.
The absence of uniform advice leaves me in less of a quandary than I might have expected. Instead, it gives me reason to believe I must make up my own mind. That, in turn, suggests my self-determination quotient remains relatively high, especially for an old man with a history of quibbling with himself over meaningless trivia. So the decision is, as it always has been, mine. The decision was made early yesterday, even before I queried Father Facebook; I would have my hair cut, feathered to keep it out of my face, but remaining long. Yet, by beseeching Father Facebook for an answer, I gave myself an opportunity to reverse the decision. And so I did. As of this very moment, I have decided to allow my long locks to grow even longer. When the hair on the side of my head grows two or three more inches, it will be long enough to gather the entire mass of keratin into a tail of some sort. What I will do with it then is anyone’s guess.
